


I... I am

by oftachancer



Series: here in this moment [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cole POV, Dorian POV, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Multiple Timelines, PWP, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Referenced Dorian/Iron Bull, Referenced Leliana/Trevelyan/Zevran, Referenced Trevelyan/Zevran, Referenced... lots of things. Just a lot., Romance, Spoilers, Threesomes, Time Travel, maybe not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Aran Trevelyan - the seventh scion of Ostwick's Bann Trevelyan - had led a sheltered life at the Starkhaven Chantry as a historian and archivist's assistant. He survived possession by a demon and having a piece of the Fade permanently stuck in his palm, the destruction of Haven, and a journey into a terrifying future.But Aran Trevelyan is dead, stabbed in the courtyard of his own keep by a traitor to the Inquisition.Now, the Inquisition struggles to regain its footing. Leliana send the distracted inner circle on a mission to a dwarven thaig hidden beneath the Storm Coast and they learn that nothing is as it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

Skyhold. A place where no soul had stepped for eight hundred years. Perhaps longer. Sealed and warded, protected by ancient elven glyphs that even the Dalish couldn’t translate. It was a repository of ancient knowledge. Text carved into stone, when you could find it. Statues of elven gods and the Maker’s Bride.

Only a few months before, laughter had chimed through the halls and gardens. Warmth had suffused the grounds despite the frozen landscape surrounding the keep. Now it was as cold as a tomb. Voices rarely raised above a murmur. The hushed sense of loss still echoing through every blighted chamber and alcove.

Dorian watched the clouds pass through the mountains that surrounded them, peering out through the as yet unmortared hole in the wall of the war room. They’d had one in Haven. Before it had truly felt like a war. Now- The muscles in this cheek were twitching, his breath shortening as he listened to Cullen and the Iron Bull arguing about troop placements. Darkspawn: every time they turned their heads, they found them. Creepy, malformed, twisted souls stumbling towards chaos.

“We need her, Varric,” Cassandra was insisting. “If there is any chance, any way, that you can find her, bring her here, you must do it. Without Trevelyan-“

The room hushed as she said the his name. It might as well have been forbidden.

Dorian turned on his heel and walked out.

“Let him go, Seeker,” Varric murmured.

It barely made a difference. The hall was no better than the war room, only here he didn’t have to hear them. The whole awful keep was the same. Cold, damp, empty, and unseasonably dreary. Oh, he’d found a cause alright. He’d found it and driven it right off a cliff into a Blight. One more Tevinter upstart bringing about another apocalypse. So much for that. He sank onto the bench, allowing his face to sink into his hands. Breathe. He just had to breathe, that was what the Chantry sisters told him. Told all of them. Andraste had called her Herald back to her. That didn’t mean they should lose hope.

Hope. As though it still existed in a world where Aran-

“How’s it going there, Sparkler?”

Dorian didn’t move.

“So, better? Better than yesterday, maybe?” Varric’s shadow brushed over him like a chill cloak. “Since you’re not walking away or shouting at me this time-“ he began, “I wanted to tell you- no one thinks it was your fault.”

That wasn’t true at all, of course, because he knew for a fact at least one person who did. And that person was never wrong. Except for the once when he’d set events in motion for a miracle to be murdered.

“We all knew how he was. He wasn’t going to behead the guy or throw him in prison.”

“Stop.”

Varric sighed. “Right.”

Dorian watched through his fingers as the dwarf shifted from boot to boot. “At least tell me there’s something I can do. Anything.”

“Solas has some more elven ruins he’s going to go poke around.”

“Of course he bloody does.”

“Maybe he’ll find another way to close the rifts. You never know. The guy is a Fade fanatic.” Varric cursed under his breath, “No one thought Alexius was going to-“

Dorian stood abruptly and brushed past him down the hall. Perhaps a drink at the tavern. A walk in the gardens. Some time in the library. Anywhere but here with Varric’s torturous forgiveness. 

“Good talk,” he heard the dwarf mutter behind him.

Bloody, fucking Alexius. He’d seemed so defeated after Redcliffe; heartbroken. Maker help him, when Aran had sent his former mentor to go work with Chantry scholars on the technique he’d used for the time magic, Dorian had quietly cheered. He’d been overjoyed at the prospect of having that knowledge, of seeing just how it worked and how they could use it to their advantage. And, yes, he had hoped that the work might bring his old mentor back to him in some small way. Hope. That was what Aran had done. He’d gone around planting infectious little seeds of hope in every ridiculous gutter and mire, convincing them all that those places could be beautiful someday.

Aran had been so pleased with himself, too. Dorian had seen it in his eyes when the idea had occurred to him; that quiet joy he seemed to shone with when he had found the solution to a problem. A puzzle. Oh, sure, send the mad cultist to work on more magic. That couldn’t possibly go wrong. Only Dorian truly hadn’t thought that it would. If he’d had even an inkling, a hesitation, he would have ended Alexius before he had a chance to-

But he hadn’t, had he? Not a single note of suspicion. Blind. He’d been blind and foolish, and Aran had paid the price.

Three months. The man had been dead three months; Dorian’s world had shattered at that moment, but the rest of the world seemed to be catching up. Unraveling without him as its anchor. His anchor.

He hesitated on the landing, peering down the steps to the courtyard. Hushed where there had been laughter. Subdued where there had been sunlight.

Was it just the light, or was his blood still staining the steps below?

“Good, you’re here. Sack up, pack up.” The qunari leaned down to shout at the Chargers as they filed beneath the landing. Past the place where Aran had fallen. “Tell Dennet to send word ahead we’ll need fresh mounts at the pass.”

“Yes, Chief!”

Dorian sighed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather attempt to be useful here.”

“No can do. Red’s got a bead on some creepy rift magic happening in some dwarven thaig, with a bunch of Venatori trying to break down the doors. I mean a bunch. You, me, Cassandra, the Chargers, even a half-dozen scouts and soldiers for good measure.”

Dorian straightened, “I’ll meet you at the stables, then.”

“You’ll see; it’ll be just like old times.”

“It will never be like old times.” Dorian bowed his head and headed towards his room to collect his things.

\----

“You know, if you’d mentioned the Storm Coast, I would have suggested you bring Vivienne in my stead.”

“Yeah, but then I would have had to listen to her bullshit for two weeks. You’re better.”

“You enjoy my sparkling wit and good humor?”

“You’re prettier.”

Dorian laughed despite himself. “Don’t tell me you’ve mentioned this to her.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh good. I want to be there when you do.” He pressed a hand to his stomach, “Even seeing the waves makes me seasick.”

“Don’t look at ‘em then.”

“You guys hear that?” Varric asked, trotting back to them.

“Don’t say the ‘w’-word. You’ll make the ‘Vint vomit,” the Iron Bull smirked.

Dorian prepared a nice, chiding remark about the qunari’s distaste for snow, but withheld it. The expression on Varric’s face was one he’d grown to understand he should pay attention to.

“No. Listen.”

The Iron Bull whistled, drawing the group to a halt.

Cassandra rode back to them, frowning, “What’s the meaning of this? Why have we stopped?”

Dorian sat very still, watching the qunari and the dwarf listening intently to what sounded to him like merely waves and wind.

“Fighting,” Varric said.

The qunari tapped his ear, tilting his head. “Swords. Cutlasses. Someone beat us to those ‘Vints.”

“Then let’s get in there and take our due before they’re all dead,” Krem grinned fiercely.

The Iron Bull loosed a shout, echoed by his men, and the whole of the force charged forward. Neither Varric nor the Bull had been wrong. The Venatori force was a hundred strong at least, not counting their dead that already lay scattered amongst the shore’s detritus. Darkspawn spilled around them, apparently under their control, or at least not targeting them yet. A line of dinghies ranged down the shoreline, with more still pouring inland from a pair of high-masted ships off the coast.

“Pirates!” the Iron Bull grinned. “I love pirates.”

“Don’t kill them,” Varric shouted as he loaded his bow. “I think I know them!”

“Of course you do…” Dorian slid from his mare, passing the reins off to one of the handlers as he loosed his staff. He scanned the field, looking for injuries, and began dotting claims on the heaviest bleeders, drawing them back up to fight as soon as they fell. Every terribly designed helmet reminded him of Alexius, and oh how many times he’d killed that sorry waste of air. Until he’d sagged depleted, out of lyrium, and the last remaining touches of the soul of his once-friend had faded to nothing.

It was Dalish, the elven ‘not-mage’ of the Chargers who drew him back, her hand on his forearm, “The fight’s over. We’ve killed them all.” He released his hold on the dead and let them fall. ‘Gave them peace’, Aran would have said, and Aran would have been wrong.

“Is there anyone you don’t know, Varric?” Cassandra asked amused, satisfied for the moment by the blood that stained the stones around them. The Venatori were dead. The darkspawn were routed.

“Don’t know too many ‘Vints.”

“Lucky you,” Dorian murmured.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric meets an old friend. The Inquisition makes a new ally. And the team goes to find Isabela's secret weapon - the Whisperer.

Varric picked his way across the shore, sidestepping fallen foes while waving a hand at the salt-stained warriors who were carefully maintaining a distance. “Hey, Raiders of the Waking Sea! Anybody here know the Admiral?”

“What’s her banner, dwarf?” an Antivan sailor answered.

“Big skull, red blindfold, seven stars.”

“State your business.”

“So you do know her. She out there on the big ship?”

One of the sailors was stalking towards them down the shore, sheathing her cutlasses in one smooth movement. The woman was beautiful, slender with full hips clad in tight leather. Rings and gold coins glinted against her copper skin. Her hair was a thick, curling ocean of darkness. Dorian had read Varric’s books. He knew who she was. Who she had to be.

“And they say violence doesn’t solve everything.” Isabela chuckled warmly, all honey and salty seas.

“Look at you, Rivaini. Got yourself two big boats now.”

“Those are my casual boats. You should see the ones I have at port.” She rested her hands on her hilts. “Strange company you keep now, Varric,” she said, eyeing the Iron Bull from a distance.

“Oh, him?” Varric jogged over to her, lowering his voice, “Yeah, when you go, we’ll distract him. Don’t worry. He’s on our side, kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Mostly.”

“I heard about you. There’s a real big bounty on your head,” the Iron Bull rumbled, all teeth. “And other parts of you, too.”

“I’m unimpressed, Varric.”

The dwarf sighed, “What are you doing here, Rivaini?”

“The same as you, I imagine.”

“So there is treasure in there.”

She laughed, tilting her head back, “ _Treasure_. Oh, yes, there’s a treasure. Mine. That’s where I keep my Whisperer.”

“That some kind of… pirate sex toy?” the qunari asked.

“The world’s never been that kind to me,” she answered, bland. “Tell you what, Varric - I’ll tell you because you’re too desperately manly to refuse. There is something in there that will help with your running obsession. Ending the end of the world, isn’t it? Give me three hundred royals and seven crates of fade-touched cotton, and you can have it. I’ll even give you the key.”

Varric narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to?”

“Make that nine crates.” The Queen of the Eastern Seas shifted her gaze to the silent Seeker. She seemed very good at spotting who she needed for her goal. “Or we can fight over it while more darkspawn gather.”

“It is a generous offer,” Cassandra said thoughtfully.

“Yeah… that’s why it worries me,” Varric scoffed.

“I have given more for your Inquisition than you would believe,” Isabela tapped her fingers on her hilts. “And trust me when I say, I’d rather not kill you all. I dislike killing old friends. They leave stains on my knives.” She popped one generous hip to the side, brushing her fingers down her blood-stained shirt, “Well? Seeker?”

“Where is Hawke?” Cassandra asked.

“Ah, now we’re driving the price up.” She smiled, “Very well. A thousand gold. My men can drink well. I’ll take the shipment through the mercenaries here. The Blades of Hessarian. They seem the reliable sort.” She eyed Cassandra with a tilted head. “Three hundred gold and nine crates for the thaig. A thousand for Hawke’s location.”

Varric opened his mouth to protest, but he was too late. Cassandra had already thrust out her hand, “It’s a deal.”

Isabela chuckled. “Nice doing business with you. Two weeks, that should give you enough time. And if you welch… I know where you live.” She shook Cassandra’s hand, lifting a long leather cord over her head and dangling its attached heavy iron key. Cassandra took it. “Come on, Raiders, back to the boats,” she called, swaggering back to the dinghies. “I’ll send a raven when I’ve located our old friend, shall I?”

Varric eyed the sailors, and Dorian noted the relief that loosened shoulders and smoothed faces. “What are you getting us into, Rivaini?”

“Nothing you weren’t already getting into before,” she called over her shoulder. “Try to be nice to the Whisperer. And watch where you step.”

Cassandra nodded sharply. The sailors clambered into their boats, pulling stakes, and setting off towards the anchored ships offshore. “I should have talked to her years ago,” she murmured.

”You say that now,” Varric muttered, watching with narrowed eyes as the pirates retreated.

Dorian stood silently, leaning on his staff. Little rotating wheels propelled them back towards the ships. Not an oar in sight. Silent and smooth and steady.

“Neat trick,” the Iron Bull said with approval. “Skilled fighter, savvy negotiator, silent landing crews. I can see why so many people want her dead.”

“Let us see to this Whisperer and retrieve it before more of Corypheus’s faction arrive.” Cassandra lifted a hand, sending the scouts forward to the mouth of the cavern. “Watch for traps.”

“Not all dwarves like caves, you know,” Varric sighed.

“Cheer up. We’re heading into certain danger. It’ll feel just like home.” Dorian’s smile was awkward, forced, but Varric laughed anyway. He was the merciful sort.

Inside the thaig, veilfire braziers were waiting to be lit. In the dark, odd shapes scuttled unnaturally. And there were traps. Lots of them. It took Varric and four scouts to clear a path that was littered with tripwires and pressure plates and nearly invisible bits of string that released massive spouts of flame or sprays of poison darts or braces of spears. And they found bodies, too: Venatori and raiders and bandits collecting dust and rats where they’d fallen over the years.

“This place is _real_ cheery,” the dwarf griped. “I especially like all the spiders that have been trailing us this whole time. And all the decorative dead people.”

“Spiders? Is that what those are?” Dorian asked and thought with a deep sadness that, at the very least, Aran was spared more spiders. The man had been terrified of the things. ‘Too many legs,’ he’d always muttered, jerking away every time he saw one.

The key Cassandra had been given opened a massive ironbark door, turning smoothly as though from common use. “Someone should stay here,” she said. “In case.”

“Sure thing,” Varric volunteered.

“Not you.”

The Iron Bull lifted a hand vaguely, nodding for the Chargers to spread out and hold the area. “Just shout if there’re demons. Don’t want to be left out.”

Beyond the door, there were still more traps. Spears that thrust from the walls, ceiling, and floor at regular intervals. Massive, serrated qunari axes that swung on pendulums. More tripwires. “Shit, we know it’s not gold. What the hell is she protecting?”

“You think these are Isabela’s traps?” Cassandra asked.

“She wasn’t ever much into this kind of thing, but who else would have built this shit? They’re not old.”

“She said this thing was hers,” Cassandra said. “A golem of some sort, perhaps?”

“A golem?” Varric asked, bewildered. “On a ship? Building traps? Whose novels are you reading, Seeker?”

“Perhaps she keeps it around for parties,” Dorian murmured.

“A weapon.” Varric frowned, “Maybe it’s a really big weapon. That seems her speed. Or some kind of woo-woo magic artifact.” He guided them carefully down the tunnels until they reached the door of the thaig. “Well. We could turn back now… or not-“ he rubbed the bridge of his nose as Cassandra strode forward to the thaig door. “Hey, just wait, okay. There are five locks on that door. This has to be an Aeducan vault of some kind. See the script? Crafty shits, the Aeducans.”

Dorian brushed his fingers over the carved inscriptions. Aran could have translated this, told them the place’s secrets. History and languages had been what he’d lived for. He shut his eyes.

“Got it,” Varric said after an interminably long time. “Those three. Don’t even touch that one. I think it might explode.”

Cassandra handed him the key. “You do it.”

“You’re the leader.”

“We don’t have a leader,” she snapped, but she turned the key where she’d been told. A deep grinding sound shook the stones around them. “Varric-“ she growled.

“Hold on, hold on, just give it a minute.”

The heavy thaig door began to turn, churning into the stone and out of the way. Beyond it…

They stepped forward together, peering inside. The room was massive, largely in shadow, but there were torches and veilfire in certain areas already lit. Mounds of metal, ancient and otherwise, pieces of weapons and armor. Hand-sized spider shapes and larger skittered over the piles, dragging at individual gears and plates. To the left, a map of Thedas had been sketched in startling detail on a massive wooden wall, arrows and knives sticking out at various points, books and scrolls piled beneath and beside it. Long tendrils of string arced and wove together like a web, tiny notes fluttering from various points. To the right, strange instruments and detailed schematics scattered a half-dozen disordered work tables. A tuneless humming resonated, echoing around them, snatches of Dalish folk songs and the Chant and varied sea shanties blending in and out of each other. Wheels and gears shifted and rolled together of their own accord. A wooden duck on wheels ambled across the stone floor at their feet.

“So this is creepy,” the dwarf muttered, cradling Bianca close.

"...Hello?" The humming went on without pause as the wheels continued to spin. "Excuse me," Cassandra tried again, louder.

Dorian jumped a little at the snort of laughter to their right and turned to find red eyes that were far too large for any one face peering at them from behind a stack of books.

The dwarven woman stepped around one of the drafting tables, huge magnifying lenses pushed above her salt and pepper brows; she shook her head pitifully. "You made it this far. What do you want?" Her voice had the distinct sound of those they’d met who were infected with red lyrium, and her eyes confirmed that, but she seemed… competent. Aware.

"The Admiral sent me. I am-”

"I know your name, Seeker Pentaghast." The woman squinted at her for a long moment, then rolled her eyes on a sigh, "I'm Kaapi. House Suulda."

“Suulda,” Varric repeated. “Your people are Carta, aren’t they?”

“Right now, we’re something else.”

"I am pleased to meet you…” Cassandra spoke carefully.

"Ha. Right. Only you’re not here for me. You’re here for him." Kaapi turned, took a deep breath, and shouted so loud that the room seemed to quake, "VISITORS!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team meets the Whisperer. Dorian nearly has a heart attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is the scene that started this whole bloody mess of a series. Spoilers. Endless spoilers from here on out. Or are they?)

_"I am pleased to meet you…” Cassandra spoke carefully._

_"Ha. Right. Only you’re not here for me. You’re here for him." Kaapi turned, took a deep breath, and shouted so loud that the room seemed to quake, "VISITORS!"_

\-----

In the distance, a number of things clattered to the stone. “What?” The voice was strange, echoing without the aid of the chamber.

Kaapi cleared her throat, "Vih. Seh. Tors!” They all waited. Silence. Then the eerie humming began again. “Alright, we’ll come to you, ye lout.” She summoned the three of them with a jerked hand, “Follow me closely. Don’t touch anything.”

As they rounded the impressive… it may as well have been a midden heap, but for the lack of rot, they caught sight of movement at the far end of the chamber. A white-haired man sprawled shirtless in the midst of a pile of parts like a child playing with blocks; he was streaked with thick, tacky grease and something clear and shiny - too shiny to be sweat. His fingers dripped with it as he worked the joint of a piston rod to a clean turn, humming tunelessly, the firm muscles of his bruised back shifting as the motion spun a standing flywheel.

“Too loud,” the resonant voice bounded back towards them. “Different. New? No- Old songs- wait, old songs!” The man stumbled to his feet with a jolt, rubbing a greasy hand through his hair, leaving it in a wild tar-spiked state as he tilted his head in askance at the dwarf, making a mincing path over to them through the field of debris and shadow between them.

As he came closer, Cassandra’s jaw tightened. Varric swore. Dorian stared.

His bare chest was a spray of branching scars, the lasting echo of what looked to be the result of some kind of lightning strike; raised, bluesilver tendrils snaking like Dalish vallaslin from the center of his chest out around the curve of his torso, then up his left side to his shoulder - branches extending down his arm and up his pale neck, past his ear, and into his hairline. A thick, jagged hook of scar tissue curled on the opposite side of his torso. At the base of his throat, a handprint-shaped burn scar gleamed. His eyes… Maker, that same soft blue was still there, barely- Dorian could see it if he paid close enough attention. And if he managed to look past the too-bright Fade-light that speared and sharded the irises. The true test was the hand; that left palm pulsing with the same sickening, eerie glow that was spreading unchecked across the world. Wrong, twisting the nature of reality around itself, fluctuating his flesh like an exposed beating heart.

Kaapi pointed to the Seeker, “This here is Cassandra Pentaghast." The way she said it felt… scripted somehow. “Says she wants the Whisperer.”

Laughter, high and shining and endless poured out of the man’s throat as he hesitated, flexing bare toes against the floor. "Oh, fantastic!" he breathed, staring. He looked distracted, lost, for a moment, then glanced down and blinked twice in quick succession. “Should… where did…?”

Kaapi tossed him an unbuttoned loose white shirt with only a few stains on it and the Aran look-alike yanked it over his shoulders with a rueful grin. "Sorry! Sorry. Ah... so you're-" He cleared his throat. His voice lowered, falsely, in some strange attempted performance. "Did the crew vote and decide that you would join us- did I miss the- never mind if it’s all- I guess, since you're here now, that means... did you need something?" he finished, red-faced. The flush was oddly comforting, making the man less ephemeral. More familiar.

“You-” Cassandra said, that one word full of far too many things.

"The Admiral said they could come," Kaapi supplied helpfully, brows lifted.

"Oh." Aran scrubbed his hand through his hair again, finding a piece of wire and plucking it out to peer at it. "...is it time? When?” He swallowed hard, “Why, though? What are you doing here?”

"Yes, why?" Kaapi inquired, turning to peer at Cassandra.

”What… is all this?" she gestured at the room.

"You want a lesson in mechanics?" Aran asked, his eyes crossing, more wild laughter building in the back of his throat again like a dragon preparing to strike. He seemed to vibrate with energy, gaze darting over all of them, trying desperately and failing utterly to appear disinterested.

"They’re probably not used to so many gizmos, right?" Kaapi hooked her heel on the rung of a stool. "After all, Orlais and Tevinter fair run on mage fires, don't they?”

Aran wrinkled his nose, cocking his head to the side like one of Leliana’s ravens. "Do they? Now? Doesn't it take energy to keep those burning?" Kaapi shrugged and he turned to Cassandra, "Doesn't it take energy to--" He swallowed the rest of the question. "Void and Deep! You must be tired! I mean, we basically kidnapped you, didn't we? Did we?"

“No. They just showed up.”

He laughed awkwardly. "Nevermind that then. When did you--" His brow creased, turning to Kaapi, "When did they come--"

“Aran,” Dorian whispered.

Fadeshot eyes snapped to him like gravity, searching, seeking. “You know me?”

“Aran,” the mage repeated, ache in his voice. How was it possible? Some ghost? Some memory from the Fade made real? “How are you here?”

“That’s an excellent question.” Aran grinned, fierce and nervous, focused on him with such intensity it should have been painful. “How do you know me?”

“How- Aran-“

“How did you meet me?” He asked again, something fervent in his voice, “How do you know who I am?”

Dorian felt his heart breaking.

“Please. Just- just tell me, please.”

“Redcliffe,” Dorian whispered. “You were trying to recruit the mages for the Inquisition. I- we were waylaid by my former mentor in another time-“

“Thank the Maker, I’m home,” Aran murmured, ignoring the rest of Dorian’s stumbling explanation, and in the blink of an eye, he was so close - smelling like pitch and salt and sweat and Fade and those same, sweet fallow fields. Dorian opened his mouth to speak and found himself pulled forward and down as those hands roamed up into his perfectly coiffed hair, tangling it, stroking the backs of his ears, and swallowing the sounds of his surprise in kisses.

Dorian groaned, a sob swallowed by Aran’s lips as he grappled and held. Real. Real and alive, heart pummeling his own, breath hot and tart, warm to the touch. Touch. Hands stroked his face and neck, grasping and slick and gripping possessively, as he drank every moan and sigh and gasp and breath Dorian had to give. His nimble fingers danced over Dorian’s complicated robes with the eerie ease of long practice he had not had, brushing the cloth wide open, palms pressing to the bared flesh of Dorian’s chest.

“Get off of him.”

Aran’s hands lifted into the air immediately, his breath unsteady, eyes wild and hungry, tongue dabbing at his lower lip.

Dorian blinked when Varric patted him on the shoulder, drawing him back a step. “How are we doing, Sparkler? That - uh - we’re just- we need to make sure ‘cause none of this is normal…”

“No, it isn’t,” Dorian searching Aran’s face. Took in the point of Cassandra’s longsword against the side of his neck. “Don’t _hurt_ him. Maker, Cassandra-“

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Aran rasped. “Void and Deep, I’ve missed you so bloody much.”

Dorian’s heart tore in his chest at the answering ache in Aran’s voice, the longing in his eyes. He stepped forward carefully and cupped Aran’s cheek. “Is it- is it really you?”

“Yes!” Aran whispered feverishly, fairly vibrating where he held his place. “Yes, it’s me. I’m me. I’m here.”

“What happened?”

Aran laughed, a little wild, “That’s what I need to ask you. Can I…?” Slowly, carefully, he lifted his fingers, brushing over Dorian’s brow, peering at his chin. “The qunari haven’t attacked yet, then. That’s good. What about-“ He lifted Dorian’s hand, turning it this way and that, kissing the scarred knuckles, “I’m so sorry. Felix was- he was brilliant. I’d hoped I’d make it back in time to get him to Weisshaupt- But, oh, Dorian, you’ll see- what he did, when he got back to Tevinter, it made all the difference. It always does. I need time. When are we? The date. The year. Anything.”

“9:42 Dragon. Just after Harvestmere,” Varric said, shaking his head. “Shit, Quicksilver, we all thought you were dead.”

Aran squinted at him, “Why would you think that?“

“You died.” Dorian looked, really looked. Older. Aran’s jaw had broadened, small creases at the corners of his eyes and shadows beneath them. It was him, so precisely him, and so very altered. Aran had been soft-spoken and thoughtful. Now he was full of raw energy; Dorian could feel it vibrating within him. “You were stabbed, at Skyhold. Everyone saw it. The woman who- she was a Venatori spy. She poured some kind of liquid on herself. And you. And you both burst into flames. No one could reach you. The flames just burned into the earth and you were both… there was nothing left.”

“Nothing,” Aran repeated, then frowned, eyes suddenly achingly tired. “No one was looking, then- of course not. Why-” He pressed his forehead to the mage’s, eyes filling with sorrow and just as quickly snapping to sharp concentrated intensity, “But you’re here now. Did you get it? Please, tell me you got it.”

“What?” Dorian asked, desperate to make sense of what was happening. “Got what?”

“The notes. Alexius’ notes. Did you get them? Did you decipher them?”

“He killed you. We found his emblem on the charred remains of the dagger she stabbed you with-”

“No. Dorian. No. Look at me.” Dorian couldn’t _not_ look, following every strange new scar and bruise and - Maker, he’d never seen hair that white on a person before. Stark like snow. “I’m not dead. I’m here, at least until I’m not. Shit. Okay. 9:42 Dragon A. Just the mages? Cassandra, I have a lot to do and no idea how much time I have to do it in. Put down your sword.” There was such unexpected, immediate command in his voice that she blinked, stepping back. He swayed, shook his head, “The dagger, Dorian. The one with Alexius’ emblem. Do you still have it? Where is it? I need it. I need to bring it to you. Other you. Maybe that’s what we’ve been missing. Ha!” He wiped a hand over his mouth to stop the laughter that wanted to tear free again. “No, I've got this. I can-"

"Watch your feet!" Kaapi called, stopping Aran short of falling forward over the pile of parts behind him.

"Right," he stepped carefully and emerged in a slightly less cluttered floorspace. "Here, we'll-“

"Shoes," Kaapi sang.

Aran located a pair of boots, dropping to the floor and pulling them onto bare feet, tying them haphazardly. "Done." He sprang up again, diving for the far wall with its maps and notes.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan.” Cassandra sank to one knee, “Andraste has brought you back to us.”

“Not- no, not exactly. Look- I don’t know how long this one will last or where I’ll be next, so let’s make this count, okay?” He frowned, “Stop kneeling, Cassandra. You’re the bloody Divine. Act like it. The Wardens and the Templars and the Mages. What happened?”

“You recruited the mages for the Inquisition...” Cassandra hesitated, brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve done a lot of things. A lot. They don’t all work. Is this- Shit, this is easier with Cole.”

“Who is Cole?” Cassandra asked, confused.

“What do you mean, who is- you know Cole. You know Cole,” he repeated, looking at each of them in turn. Dorian shook his head slightly. “Ugh. It doesn’t matter right now.” He walked through the strings, peering at tags in spidery scripts. “Oh, _I_ have the Templars.”

“You- You know where they are? No one has been able to-“

“Oh, yes. I do. I recruited them. Well, some of them. Right before the Conclave,” he grabbed a thick tome, flipping quickly through it and comparing it to a patched-together notebook he pulled from where it was bound by ropes to his waist. “You’re welcome. The Lord Seeker is dead. Sorry - there’s never been a way to change that. Not so far, anyway. He’s a real shit, by the way. Don’t know how you put up with him. Kaapi, there’s a book here somewhere she needs. Big leather tome, massive eye on the cover. Right. Denam’s alright now, though. Mostly. As well as any of us, am I right?” He grinned, waiting for a laugh that didn’t come. “Just me, then? Never mind. The Templars and the Blades of Hessarian are a good start. We’ll need them both for the qunari. Oh, and the Raiders. You met the Raiders, right?”

“I meant to ask about that. How do you know Isabela?” Varric wanted to know.

“I stole her and a relic from the former Arishok a few years ago,” Aran muttered absently, comparing the two sets of notes. “Eight? Maybe? 9:42… Eleven?”

Varric coughed, “You stole-“

“It’s around here, somewhere. Have to weaken them where we can.”

“But Corypheus-“ Cassandra began.

“Corypheus is child’s play compared to what’s coming,” Aran told her. “Between Tevinter and the qunari, it’s all flames and madness. Emperor Gaspard will need to-“

“He’s dead.”

Aran jerked, “What? No- the assassins- Did I miss the Crows on this…”

“We arrested him,” Cassandra explained. Dorian could see her confusion, her utter incomprehension, yet she was playing along. Answering when asked, steady as a rock. What a good soldier. “He died trying to escape.”

“Arrested? Why would you arrest-“

“He was part of a plot to assassinate the Empress Celene- You were gone- there was-“

“Who the fuck cares? We need him- Shit!” Aran pressed his fingers into his temples. “Shit, shit, shit. Briala, at least, is she-“

“Celene’s consort,” Varric nodded.

“I can work with that. I can work-“

“What in the Void is going on?” Dorian snapped.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, _carissimus_ , just give me a moment to find my bearings. You’re not usually this impatient; actually, it’s downright frustrating how uncrackable you are, to be honest. Maybe this is better, but I really need you to hold it together for the- What is the matter with all of you?” He lifted his brows as the three of them stared at him.

Dearest? Dorian wondered. 

"I think we all might be a little lost on the seeing into the future thing, buddy," Varric answered, frowning.

“I don’t know how to-“ He frowned, concentrating on Dorian. “I’m out of time. Out of linear time. Outside of it,” he specified, “Do you see? You and I have been unraveling this mess for… ha- decades now, it feels like, when you’re not trying to kill me.”

“Kill you?” Dorian asked, aghast.

“Once you thought I was a desire demon and nearly did the job.” He was grinning. Dorian stared at the handprint at his throat. Burns. He looked down at his own hand, shaken. Then stained fingers twined with his, squeezing, and he looked up into solemn Fadeshot eyes. “It’s alright. You’ve more than made up for that, ten times over, already. Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past. Mine. Not yours. Usually, I duck out before you start throwing elements at me. You were sneaky that time and I was… not in the best state of mind to be honest. The thing is, I never know when I’m showing up next, or where, and it was getting really confusing, so you suggested some kind of base and I got Leliana and some friends to help me set this place up-“

“Leliana?!” Cassandra nearly shouted. “She’s known where you are all this time? That you were alive?”

“Ah… maybe? Sometimes? That’s a more complicated question than you think. She doesn’t always know that I’m me, but she’s been really, really instrumental-” He let out a long shaky breath, “Maker, it’s good to see all of you. You seem relatively unscathed. That’s… fucking great. And you still have your arm!” He beamed at Cassandra.

She touched her shoulder, nervous, but soldiered on. “What about the Blight?”

“Blight?”

“Yeah,” Varric crossed his arms. “You know - archdemon, darkspawn everywhere, no Wardens to speak of-“

“No- wait, you haven’t spoken with the Wardens yet? It’s- what the hell have you been doing? They have to come first. I mean, it’s not an archdemon, but that’s beside the point. He’s the worst of the darkspawn, for crying out loud-”

“How would we speak to them?” Varric asked. “No one knows where they are.”

“But- where’s Blackwall?”

“Recruiting forces to barricade the rifts.” Cassandra frowned, “How do you know Blackwall? We only found him after you-“

“It doesn’t matter right now. Why didn’t he tell you about the Calling? No- no, no, no. That’s- damn. Fine, where’s Hawke? She’s supposed to have- damn it. Adamant. We have to go to Adamant. Now. Fuck. I was really hoping to not go into the Fade again. Exactly how long have I been dead? Never mind. It doesn’t matter right now. Maybe if we’re quick enough-”

“The Grey Wardens haven’t used Adamant for years-“

“They’re using it now. At least they probably are, unless something else has slipped in. Spawning a demon army with blood magic.”

“Blood magic?” Dorian asked, catching up piece by piece. “Demon army? Aran - Alexius was planning to raise a demon army in Redcliffe, but-“

“Not that one, the other one. Corypheus has a one track mind.” Aran blinked, laughed, then began laughing uproariously. “Oh, one track mind-“ He collapsed against Dorian’s side. “You get it.”

And Dorian found that he did, curling his arm around the man, although he did not find it funny in the slightest. “Just how many timelines are you straddling, exactly?”

Aran seemed to find that even more hilarious. “You always ask the same questions. I’ve got the answers written up for you in here, somewhere, let me look-“

“The Wardens would never do such a thing-“ Cassandra was insisting.

“Well, what did you expect? They killed Justinia. A Blight, though- that’s interesting. I should have guessed he’d try that next. Stupid of me.” He looked around, patting his pockets, “Pen, I need a pen.” He patted Dorian down, searching every pocket, “Huh. You usually have one.”

“I wasn’t expecting to take notes,” Dorian murmured, peering at the top of that shock white head of hair. He touched him so easily, confidently, as though Dorian was simply an extension of himself. As though they’d known each other for… decades, he’d said. Years. Multiple timelines, multiple realities… It was possible. Theoretically. Alexius had tried to remove him from time before and only succeeded in shifting them ahead in time. Had he truly done it now? And it _still_ hadn’t worked right?

“You always expect to take notes,” Aran looked at him curiously. It was true, though he hadn’t thought Aran had noticed. Fadeshot. Through and through. Maker, what had they gotten themselves into? “Kaapi-“

“Behind you.”

He turned, shoving books aside and scrawling something quickly into his notebook. “Weapons, armor, some spirit resistance runes if we have any, is that Box of Antrosian here or did I not get to that yet?”

“I’ll check the log,” she muttered acerbically.

“So… Suulda…” Varric murmured.

“Hm? Transporting red lyrium for the Templars for a bit, before I got them out from under that. Most of the clan was… well. Not my story. Oh, here,” Aran folded his notebook open. “Let’s see, I think - between the Templars and the Mages, we might well be able to nip Adamant in the bud. I’d rather not get Hawke or Carver killed again if I can help it.”

“What do you mean _again_?” Varric asked.

Aran shook his head, “Not now. Then.” He stiffened suddenly, tension flaring and abating with the mark of his palm. He blew out a long breath, the Fade in his eyes bleeding pale, eager light. He turned back to the map, away from them, shaking out his hand and shutting his eyes.

“Aran.”

“The book. I need the book,” he gasped, panicked. He grabbed the notebook from the table, “Adamant. Take the Templars with you. Clarel needs to be stopped. Hawke will know what to do. Carver- between Carver and Alistair, the Wardens must be rebuilt. Do you understand? Whatever happens, they have to remain. Kaapi, help them, whatever they need-” He flickered, there and not there, turning to peer over his shoulder, meeting Dorian’s eyes. “Remember-“

Dorian stared at the place he’d been.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes deductions. Varric does too. Aran gets to be home for... how long?

“Where the hell did he go?” Varric turned in a circle.

Not where, Dorian thought. When. “I cannot begin to guess,” he said instead, walking through the web of strings and notes.

“Can it be true?” Cassandra asked, staring at the map more closely. “Can it truly be the Herald?”

“Whether it is the Aran we’ve known, or another… I don’t know. It would take further questioning to find out more. But that it is _an_ Aran Trevelyan, yes. Of that, I am positive.”

“So much faith based solely on a tongue stuck down your throat,” Cassandra scowled.

“Act as snide as you like, but you showed your true colors when you threatened to _chop his head off_.” Dorian touched a scrap of paper. Aran’s quick, jotting handwriting: ‘invasion by sea’. “I know because of that and other various intimacies one becomes familiar with when one is...close, not to mention I am a mage of no small talent. I’ve had some practice recognizing resonances.” He frowned, “In this reality, anyway. I could murder...” How could he have touched him with flashfire? Hurt Aran like that?

“All this is very… informative, but what do you mean ‘an Aran’?” Cassandra crossed to him, investigating the notes with him.

“It appears, and this is an early theory, that when we thought he’d been kille,d he was, in fact, taken from this timeline and began somewhat of a… branching narrative, for lack of a better term,” Dorian touched another note: ‘Felix to Weisshaupt’. “And it appears he has been… hurtling from one version of reality to another, somewhat out of order, by the range of these notes and the description he gave.”

“So he has seen the future as you did in Redcliffe…?” Cassandra was clever, he’d known that before.

“Rather more of it, I expect, than the bit we saw through the amulet. And not seen, Seeker. We were there. Judging by his scars, I wager his experience has not been an entirely pleasant one.”

“And the past,” Varric poked at one of the hanging notes. “‘Save Feynriel.’ He was in Kirkwall.” The dwarf shook his head, “Shit. Hawke kept getting those letters she’d never let me read. Was he - what - ‘whispering’ to her, too? Is that possible?”

“It would appear so.”

“Should we believe him, then? These things he says will come to pass?”

“Curious about why he said you were the Divine?” Varric asked. “I sure as hell am.”

“I… did wonder.”

“I can’t be certain, of course, without further study. But I am inclined to believe that they may well have come to pass, if not in our reality, then in some other.” Dorian frowned, “Of course, it could also be that he is merely experiencing different fragments of the Fade, shaped to appear as disparate time.”

“Oh.” Was it just him or did the Seeker sound just a trifle disappointed by that theory? “I will write to Leliana and find out what she knows. If we must move on Adamant, we will need to access these forces he believes he has accrued.”

“Agreed.”

A gut-churning snap tore the air near to them. Dorian felt hot wind pouring through it as Aran toppled to the ground, gasping, covered in sand and gore. “No! No, no!” He stumbled to his feet, spinning, screaming, gripping a pair of long, twisting blades in white-knuckled hands. “Damn it, no!” A week’s worth of stubble on his jaw, a bruise developing in purples across his cheek, a full suit of leather armor that gleamed with freshly spilled blood. “Fuck!” he shouted, kicking a pile of refuse. A strange, malformed, mechanical spider tottered out of harm’s way.

“Strike that last,” Dorian murmured. “Unless we are all in the Fade. Or mad.”

Aran whirled towards them, breathless, wild-eyed. “Varric- you’re…” he blinked several times, dropping his blades to scrub his eyes. The daggers hit the ground at his feet with a splash and clatter. “You’re here. With Cassandra? But the dragon- you made it clear of the dragon? How?”

“Which one?” The dwarf joked, uneasily.

“The lyrium one,” Aran stared at him. “You got away, all of you? Fenris-“

“No lyrium dragons here, Quicksilver. Got paid really well for one in Kirkwall with Fenris and Hawke and Merrill, once.”

“But Fenris-“

“Fine, last I heard. Hunting magisters.”

“Oh. Oh.” Aran stripped his gauntlets, fumbling at the catches of his armor to jerk it open and pull out the notebook.

Dorian retrieved the pen from the table and brought it over, offering it silently.

Aran gazed at him gratefully, taking the instrument, and hurriedly penned notes into the overstuffed leather binding. “Thank you.”

“How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long were you there?” Dorian asked. “In Kirkwall. Just now.”

“I’m not sure, a month maybe?”

“A month?!” Cassandra exclaimed.

“I think that note to Leliana should happen sooner rather than later,” Dorian told her, dropping to one knee to cup Aran’s chin in his hand. “Elfroot.”

“I ran out.”

“Lucky for you, I have not.” Dorian held out a tiny bottle, “Drink up.” As Aran downed the contents, wincing, he felt rather than saw Cassandra leave, likely to make a report to Leliana. Strange that they’d come to the point where she trusted him so implicitly. Dorian traced Aran’s features, featherlight touches to the scar at his jaw, the edges of the bruise, the corners of his eyes. “Do they hurt?” he asked softly.

“Sometimes,” Aran answered honestly, leaning into his touch like a cat. “Like the sun reflecting off snow into your eyes. The way it feels, not the blindness. I can see fine. Ha. Well, as well as might be expected.”

Dorian hummed softly. “Have you a bed here?”

It was not dissimilar to being blasted by a fire mine, only the palpable heat that suddenly poured from the man before him, pure hunger in Fadeshot eyes, was not unpleasant. Quite the contrary. “Who needs beds?” Aran’s erratic tenor guttered; Dorian swallowed as parts of him tightened reflexively in reply. 

Varric cleared his throat, reminding them that he was still there. “I’ll… go see what the lyrium lady is up to…”

“No-“ Dorian was quite sure that his already strained willpower might well break without the too-observant dwarf. He shook his head to emphasize the point, slanting a nervous look towards Varric. By the time he returned to Aran, the blood-soaked rogue had his gauntlets and off and was stripping his unbuckled cuirass off over his head. “Not- Maker’s Breath, you’re bleeding-”

“Dragon blood,” Aran muttered, biting at the soaked straps of his pauldron to untie it. Once free, he flung it to the ground, stalking towards Dorian. “Not mine.” Dorian held Aran an arm’s length away, studying the flex of the man’s nostrils as he allowed Dorian to hold him back. And it was an allowance. Dorian could feel the power coursing through the arms and shoulders beneath his palms. Maker, he’d gotten strong. “Dorian- Maker knows when I’ll be here again and if I told you how long it’s been since I’ve seen you- this you- the you I’ve been trying to get back to- Gods, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“You were dead, Aran.”

“But I wasn’t-”

“But you were, to us, to me, this-”

“You believe me, though.”

“I do- Maker’s breath, I want to- but-”

“Hey, Quicksilver,” Varric cleared his throat, scratching his chin, “You didn’t find working with Isabela unseasonable?”

Aran half-mad hungry expression loosened, a crooked curve of lips replacing it, and there it was - that Trevelyan smile, the one they knew. “It was an all hands on deck kind of thing.”

“But she wasn’t arrr-gravating?”

“I wouldn’t avast her to marry me or anything, but sea’s a force to be wreckened with.”

Varric snorted. “Welcome back, Quicksilver.”

Aran bit his lip, relaxing in Dorian’s hold, his eyes falling shut in relief, “Thanks, Varric.”

“I get all your notes when this is all over, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, ducking his head, “It’s a deal.”

“Great.” The dwarf looked at Dorian. “That’s as close to a hundred percent as I can get, Sparkler. The kid’s a punny son of a bitch.”

“You talk about my mother like you know her,” Aran murmured, tongue in cheek.

“Who’s to say I don’t?” Varric winked, heading off towards the entrance to the thaig.

Aran cleared his throat, “Dorian-”

“You don’t have to say anything-“

Aran shut his eyes, ducking his head, “I do, though.”

Dorian’s heart stuttered. “Before. You said that, do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“What did you mean?”

“You didn’t want me to tell you.”

“I did,” Dorian whispered. “I just didn’t want you to say something you didn’t mean in the wake of exorcisms and rampant intercourse.” Aran laughed hollowly, but Dorian persisted, “And then I didn’t want to tell you that I wanted you to tell me.” He waited for Aran to look at him, searched those Fadeshot familiar eyes, “You do what?”

“Love you, you idiot.” Aran rubbed a hand over his face, kissed his knuckles and pressed those knuckles to Dorian’s lips. “Void and Deep, wasn’t it obvious?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Aran reunite. Iron Bull has awful timing. Aran makes a demand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit m/m, just in case you want to skip ahead. There's a mark (@@) half way through you can jump to.

Lost. He was lost. His hands on Aran’s skin were the only things holding him in place, keeping his anchored, as the rest of him threatened to float. How could he feel so weightless and grounded at the same time? Dorian folded him into his arms, holding the other man tight against him. Alive. Alive and here and mostly whole. Alive and loving him as fiercely as anything.

“You know, I found out your secret.”

“Which one?”

“Coriander, honey… sage, dragonthorn, thyme, basil, and amrita vein. It’s that concoction you drink instead of lyrium most of the time. Makes your sweat so-” He tucked his face against Dorian’s neck, breathing deep. “You were right, by the way,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t have liked him - the Dorian who stayed.”

Dorian swallowed unevenly, his cheek resting against that wild-spiked, bleached mess of hair. His hands stilled on the muscular plane of Aran’s back. He could barely breathe. “No?”

“You were so - cold, angry. It choked the life out of you, that life. That fucking crystal. But you’re okay now,” Aran murmured, lips to his skin. “I promise. You’re wonderful. Magnificent. Saving the world, making it beautiful-”

Dorian shuddered. “I am.”

“Mm. I made sure. If I made it back to you. I made sure you’d be loved there, too.”

Dorian groaned low in his throat, dragging Aran’s head back to kiss those lips before they could tell him anything else. Aran pressed into him, his hands slipping inside the opened folds of Dorian’s robe to spread over his chest, press over his heart.

“Always,” Aran moaned. “I’ll always make sure, Dorian. Always loved. Always held. I swear to you.”

“Maker, stop,” Dorian whispered against his lips. He grasped Aran’s ass, dragging him flush against him, feeling the press of Aran’s cock against his own through cloth and leather. His already unsteady breath shortened, blood singing through his veins in an effervescent rush. He slipped a hand between them, palming that hard, familiar weight, as he steered them to the wall.

Aran collapsed back against the stone, fumbling at the buckles of his belt, sheathes, and tasset. The heavy leather dropped to the floor at their feet, his head falling back as Dorian’s fingers made it past his laces and braies to encircle his length and hold. “Ah-” he bucked into Dorian’s hand, eyes rolling back.

Dorian pressed his tongue to the leaping vein in Aran’s neck as he stroked him, shoving hosen and braies out of the way to grasp the man’s firm, warm ass in his palm. Real. Here. Alive. His. He sucked at that pulse, tasting every vibration of every moan he dragged from the improbable man he held. He was drowning. All he could taste was Aran’s flesh and sweat. All he could hear were the whimpers and moans and breaths and the succulent sound of Aran’s cock in his grip weeping eagerly. He rubbed his thumb over that dripping tip, felt the pressure release yet more of that sweet ichor. He groaned, sinking to his knees on the stone to wrap his lips around the glistening head of Aran’s cock.

“Ah- yes-” Aran’s fingers sank into his hair again, ruining it entirely, and who cared when those nimble fingers were pressing into his scalp, drawing him closer. Dorian stretched his tongue along the twitching vein on the underside of Aran’s shaft, following the scouted trail by taking his length inch by inch into his mouth to suck and plunder. Aran’s hand flexed at the back of his head, “Need you- ah-” Dorian gazed up the length of the man’s body, watching Aran watch him, knuckles of one hand drilling into his temple. He took a deep breath, dropped his jaw, and sank down, closing around the whole of Aran’s length, feeling the press of that swollen head against the back of his throat, and watched those Fadeshot eyes cross. He breathed through his nose, hard, rolling his tongue around and over that throbbing cock, tasting every wicked inch, using his hold on Aran’s ass to pull him deeper, hold him steady, as he unraveled him. “Fuck- can’t- Dorian-” The burst of hot seed that hit the back of his throat nearly made him choke, but he breathed through it, swallowing and sucking him as he softened.

He allowed Aran to slip from his lips, rising to press his seed-stained tongue to Aran’s, kissing him with every breath left in him as Aran’s arm circled his neck, fingers still tangled in his hair, grasping the back of his head. Aran dropped his fingers from his temple to drift between them. He felt Aran tucking himself back into his braies, then heard the soft sigh of cloth as his fingers brushed the fabric of his robes. Dorian’s breath hitched, then shook as Aran sucked his tongue, his fingers slipping past complicated folds of cloth as though they were air to close around him, flesh to flesh. He groaned, thrusting into Aran’s palm and wondering if he really needed to breathe. Aran’s tongue pressed and stroked his as he continued to suck on Dorian’s tongue, lapping every trace of himself from Dorian’s lips and teeth until they were both breathless and gasping.

“I want you,” he whispered.

“I can tell,” Dorian whispered back, eliciting a wildly inappropriate snort of laughter.

Aran squeezed him, nipping at his lower lip, “Dorian-”

“You little shitbird-” a deep voice boomed as the heavy tread of qunari boots circumvented the ancient midden heap between them and the door. Dorian turned as Aran let go of him, dropping to a knee behind him, presumably to lace himself up. The Iron Bull grinned at Dorian, “I wasn’t sure I believed it, but you look like you’ve been thoroughly welcoming someone back from the dead. Where is he?”

Dorian touched his hair self-consciously, absently attempting to smooth it as he glanced back over his shoulder. Gone. The belt was there, and the heavy, studded leather tasset, but the man was absent. He looked back up in time to see steel glint and Aran’s body go flying through the air as the Iron Bull launched him wide. “Bull!” The rogue landed on his feet, catlike, boots skidding on stone, already turning, body tight, blades in both hands, snarling. “Aran- don’t!” Fadeshot eyes flicked to him, momentarily uncertain, but the Iron Bull was already swinging. “Bull-” Aran dropped under the swing, dodging around the qunari to leap onto his back, legs hooked around his waist, one arm tight around his throat, the points of his blades pressing at his heart and jugular. “Aran!”

“Drop. Your. Weapon,” Aran growled.

The maul slammed to the stone. “The fuck-”

“One more word and I will end you.”

Dorian stared. His staff was too far away. He held up one hand slowly. “Aran- that’s the Iron Bull. You remember the Iron Bull. He’s your friend-”

“Traitorous, fucking monster-” Aran hissed his vitriol against the side of the qunari’s ear, the points of his blades sinking into flesh. “I trusted you. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you for what you did. Tell me how you could-”

To his credit, the qunari didn’t flinch at the bite of steel. Nor did he move. Or speak.

“Aran,” Dorian stepped carefully forward. “Stop.”

Aran focused on him, blinking, eyes narrowing, “No- he killed you. You’re not here.”

“I am very alive and very present. And you were very aware of that not a minute ago. I need you to let him go now, Aran.”

“He killed you. He killed Varric. He-”

“No. Not here. He didn’t.”

“Not here?” Aran whispered, sounding lost.

“No.” Dorian pushed his sleeves up, peeled the open flap of his robes aside to show skin, “See? I’m here. Varric’s with... Kaapi, was it?”

Aran blades hit the ground a beat before his boots did. Bull kicked them away from him as Aran dropped, backing away, palms open above the ground.

“Nice to see you, too, Boss,” Bull muttered, touching the points of blood on his skin. He met Dorian’s eyes, “You get laid, I get stabbed.”

“It’s complicated,” he said, looking back to Aran. His head was bent over the notebook, ivory hair covering his face, one shaking finger tracing words on a page. “Aran-”

Aran shook his head, flipping pages.

“The hell happened to him? Is that blood?”

“Ah... he was fighting a dragon about half an hour ago.”

“In here?!”

“Complicated,” Dorian repeated.

“Cassandra said she was going to write Leliana that you found him ‘in a state’. Didn’t say that state was pure, fucking crazy.”

Dorian winced.

Aran looked up from the book, Fadeshot, haunted gaze brushing over them like the wind.

“Shit - I hate magic,” the Iron Bull scowled. “No offense.”

Dorian carefully placed himself between the two men, as much good as that had done before.

Aran closed the book carefully, setting it back against his spine, and held up his hands. “My mistake. Ah… anyone want a drink? I could use a drink or twenty.”

The Iron Bull frowned. “You got the drop on me.”

“If it makes you feel better, you told me how.”

“I didn’t.”

“Feint left, go low.” Aran bit his lip, “You were worried about getting possessed at the time.”

“That why I killed everyone?”

“No,” Aran’s brows drew together. “That was the Qun.”

Bull stared at him. Dorian glanced between them.

Aran cleared his throat, “Please don’t do it again.”

The qunari opened his mouth, shut it.

“There’s going to come a time when they’re going to ask you to turn on the Chargers. Don’t. And they’re going to ask you to turn on us. Don’t. You don’t think they’re invading, but they are, Bull. They just haven’t told you yet. As soon as Corypheus is out of the way, they will pour over this land like water and every place they touch will be charcoal and smoke and death.” Aran spoke quietly, walking closer, his hand pressing over the drop of blood over the Iron Bull’s heart before the qunari could back out of the way. “Don’t. Do it. Again.” The Iron Bull glanced towards Dorian, hissed through gritted teeth as Aran’s open palm cracked against his cheek. “Don’t look at him. Look at me. I have killed you before. I will do it again. Do you believe me?”

“Yeah,” Bull held still. He was nearly two feet taller than Aran, not counting his horns, but he was humming like a plucked string. “I do.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I hear that, Boss.”

“Good.” Aran grinned up at him. “Do you want to hit me now? Or drink? Or both?”

“Both.”

Aran nodded, planting his feet, “Go ahe-” He gagged as the Iron Bull’s fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

“Bull!” Dorian shouted.

“He said I could-” The qunari patted Aran’s back lightly. “So you killed a dragon, huh?”

“A few-” Aran wheezed.

“Awesome. You gotta tell me about it. Where’s that drink?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aran Trevelyan, recently returned to his original timeline, attempts to set his friends up for happiness and success... and ends up revealing more than he’d intended.

“A dragon made of lyrium?!” Bull groaned low and loud. “What I would give to fight a beast like that! The red stuff or the blue stuff?”

“Red,” Aran said distastefully. “It’s all red in Kirkwall.”

“True enough,” Varric muttered.

They were riding south through the Bannorn. Three days. It had been three days since they’d found Aran half-mad in that thaig. Aran had insisted that, in lieu of Blackwall, King Alistair was the next best way of making certain of what was happening at Adamant before they wandered over the mountains into the Western Approach.

Strange, how much this ride felt like so many before. And yet not at all. Dorian scoured the notebook in his lap, trusting his mare to follow the others. They were laughing, joking. Aran was telling tales that might have made Varric green with envy if a) Varric had an envious bone in his body and b) if they weren’t all true. Because they were, so far as Dorian could tell. He was more and more sure every time he saw his own bloody handwriting in this long, spine-sheath of a record that Aran had very, very reluctantly handed over.

“How come we never fight any dragons?” the qunari asked. It was almost, very nearly a whine.

“The next time we see one, we can,” Aran assured him. “Okay?”

“You say that now. But then it’s going to be, ‘No, Bull, there are wee peasants in the next village who need their love notes delivered’.”

Dorian snorted, then frowned, distracted, plucking a small slip of thick parchment from where it had been clipped to a page. ‘Try to remember: I asked you to do it. Stop blaming yourself. Your carissimus.’ His own handwriting. Again. On rich parchment worn from handling. A smear of blood soaked into the folds. What had he asked? What had he made Aran do? He carefully replaced the note, glancing up to see Aran’s worried look. “Just sorting through the timeline.”

“Okay,” Aran scrubbed nervously at his scalp. “Just… tell me if you… I don’t know. Find something you need clarification on.”

“I will.” Perhaps. He turned another page as Varric began asking about Kirkwall. They were lucky that Aran had the background that he did. Meticulous notes. Sketches of runes and ruins. Chantry education at its finest.

“How did I never cross paths with you?”

Aran laughed, “You did, I’m just not sure which world or when. Sometimes you knew me and sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes I had to scramble to get out of the way. But if you’d known who I was when we first met, later, in the valley, I’m pretty sure Cassandra would have killed us both with no questions asked. Remember when you crashed in Isabela’s room that night after you all fought Danarius?”

“Pricus Danarius?” Dorian looked up. “Of the Arcanists?” He looked at Varric, “That was you?”

“And a few others.”

“We all suspected he’d been murdered by his cousin,” Dorian shook his head, looking back into the book.

Aran smiled. “Anyway, I was under the bed.”

Dorian looked up. Varric coughed, “What?”

“When you crashed in there. I heard you coming and I rolled under the bed.”

“Do I want to know why you were hanging out in the Queen of the Eastern Seas’ room?” Varric peered at him cautiously.

“I do.” Dorian watched a smirk curl Aran’s lips. He’d gotten him to shave that morning and the smirk did things to his dimple and the creases at his eyes that made riding a mount uncomfortable.

“It’s not that exciting. Hawke didn’t want me to get involved. She said Fenris needed to deal with it on his own terms and she was right. Besides, the whole anchor/Magister thing… if Fenris hadn’t killed him, someone would have had to. Kind of takes the wind out of the sails of the whole ‘I will let you live’ thing when you go and stab him in an alley to prevent word of a Fade anchor reaching the Imperium.”

“But he did kill Danarius.”

“We couldn’t be sure of that ahead of time, could we?”

Varric squinted at him. “This is the same Fenris we’re talking about, right? White hair, vallas- Ah, shit. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“What was?”

“On the docks, when the qunari were- I thought Fenris was with Hawke, but I saw him fighting down on the docks during the siege.”

“Maybe… not talk about that right now,” Aran said, slanting a glance towards the Iron Bull.

Dorian followed his gaze to the qunari, who looked far too large to be riding his mount- stallion or no. And also seemed completely at ease with the entire situation. How did he do it? How did he manage to take all of this madness in stride?

“A couple war stories aren’t going to make me flip, you know,” Bull grunted.

Aran’s jaw tightened and he stared off across the fields of the Bannorn, flexing his hands on the reins. “We should camp here. We can make Denerim by the afternoon tomorrow.” He swung a leg off his horse and dropped to the ground, jogging alongside his mount as she slowed. “There’s a good spot up here, next to a cairn.”

Dorian frowned. Was it only Aran’s suspicion or did he see something in Bull - the Bull they knew here - that the rest of them didn’t?

 

* * *

 

The tents posted, horses fed, campfire set for raising when the time came. Aran dropped to his knees next to Dorian, resting his hand on the notebook. “I need this back.”

Dorian glanced up. “Are you-“

He shook his head, “No. I’m not going anywhere. Just thought I might take a walk.”

“You really think he’s dangerous?” Dorian asked quietly. “The Iron Bull?”

Aran uttered an exasperated sigh, “Of course he’s dangerous, Dorian. We all are. That’s kind of the point.”

You weren’t, he wanted to say. Not before. Not like this. “You know what I mean,” he said instead. Dorian watched as Aran closed the notebook carefully, wrapping it in its oiled skin and binding it together.

“He’s good at hiding things. Really good.” He squeezed Dorian’s fingers, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, of co-“

“No, me. Now. I know you did before. That’s different. A lot has happened. I’m not the same.”

Dorian lifted one articulate brow, “I’m aware of that. It’s a bit difficult to ignore, truthfully.”

“So, do you?” He tied a dozen tiny knots, creating a web of ropes, and bound the notebook in place, never once taking his eyes from Dorian.

“You’re erratic.”

Aran laughed, eyes darting, nervous, “There’s an understatement.”

“If you’re asking, do I trust that you’re trying to do what’s right? I do. Or do I trust that you’re my Aran, from this time? Yes, I believe that. But you don’t always seem to know what is true here.” Soft blue with shards of Fadelight. Strangeness and familiarity. “Maybe you can be more specific.”

“I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Dorian shook his head, “I’m not-“

“Just listen to me. I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone. I don’t know how long this will last or when I’ll come back again. So I need you to give me an honest answer here.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dorian wound his fingers through Aran’s as though hand-holding could keep him from being pulled through a rift. As though contact alone could steady him. It seemed to, the way he sighed and squeezed back.

“Because I know you. And because you’re right. I know too many versions of how events can turn. But you know what’s real here. It’s not like with Rilienus-“

Dorian stiffened, “What?”

Gods, that smile, cocky and proud and knowing. “See - he’s a constant. That’s easy. And he’s uncomplicated, which is really good. But I can’t get him out of the Imperium, so we go to more complicated options.”

“How do you-“

“I met him and- Cole mentioned him a couple times, so I was sure- We’re getting off topic.”

“Who is Cole? Told you what? Nothing ever-“

“Not here, no. In Tevinter. I spend… a lot of time in Tevinter these days. Dor- ah- there’s a Dorian there. That’s not the point.”

“You-“ Dorian looked at their hands, pieces falling into place. “There’s a- just how many of me do you know?”

“Only one you. But a few other Dorians. There’s you here, and there’s you in Tevinter, and there’s you in Orlais who keeps trying to kill me, and there’s you at a whole different Skyhold, which is- really… ah… well, anyway, that leads me to what I was going to say, which is- how do you feel about Bull?”

Dorian blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“You know, big guy, qunari, swings a massive hammer-“

“That’s- I don’t think he’s a threat to us. I didn’t before. But he also hasn’t really protested against anything you’ve said, so I-“

“Not about that. About…” he lifted his brows. “Do you want him?”

Dorian brushed his fingers down the branching scars of Aran’s neck where they peeked from his armor. Pink and white and mottled freckles. “Where is this coming from? I want you. Is that not plain?”

“It’s not an either-or situation, Dorian. It’s just a question.”

“Well, I’ve answered it.”

“When I was possessed, you two kind of had something, didn’t you?”

Dorian cleared his throat, as unbidden memories of rushed, furious rutting filled his mind, a pillow shoved into his mouth, rough dark hands gripping him… “Whatever you’ve heard, that was before-“

“I don’t care. I’m not-“ he laughed, kissing Dorian’s knuckles. “You think I’m asking because I’m jealous? I want to make sure you’ve got someone to care for you. I told you I would.”

“And your suggestion is _the_ _Iron_ _Bull_?” He dropped to a hissed whisper on the final words. “You _are_ mad.”

“You already have a history, so if you’re still interested and he’s still interested, sure.” Aran cocked his head to the side, “You’re surprised. Why are you surprised?”

“Aside from- Aran. You think he’s going to murder all of us.”

“I think it’s possible. It’s happened a couple times. Less likely if he’s grounded.”

“ _Grounded_. You want me to sleep with him so he won’t kill everyone?”

“No,” Aran scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I’m asking if you want to, here, because I- I know how that works. I understand it.”

“I don’t think you _do_ , Aran. ‘Caring’ isn’t how I would categorize that qunari barbarian.”

Aran squinted, “See, this is where I need you to be honest, because this whole horrified disgust thing is part of the game you guys play.”

Game. Dorian closed his eyes, shame flooding him. What did he know? What did he guess? “Maker, you’re serious, aren’t you? Is this what you do, wander around through time… what… finding cock for me?”

“No…?”

Dorian opened one eye to glare at him. “Am I some wanton, mindless whore? Is that it?”

“No!” He looked genuinely pained, which only helped somewhat. “I just want to- I can’t be everywhere. I want you to be happy. And, I swear, I’ve only played matchmaker once. Alright, technically, three times. All in Tevinter, because - Andraste’s tits, that place is a viper’s nest. No one says what they mean. Everything with Bull you did on your own.”

Dorian buried his face in his hands.

“Really, for you, only once in Tevinter. I mean, I found your wife, but that’s totally-“

“You what?!”

“-different. Tangential. We’re getting off topic. What I’m saying is, look, when I’m not there, when I’m not supposed to be in a time at all, and you’re in Ferelden, you’ve been with Bull and you’re happy. Really happy. It’s a whole… thing. So I’m asking if you want that here. Because I can help.”

Dorian gaped at him. “Help?”

“Ah… yeah. I mean, yes. Essentially.”

“He wants to _help_. What exactly do you think you’d be helping with? Holding my staff?”

“Have done,” Aran shrugged. “So what do you think?”

“I think this conversation is ridiculous.” Dorian breathed low. He needed to stop shaking. Needed to calm down, think through this. “I’m not so debauched I can’t survive between intervals. If you can wait, then so can I.” The white of his hair made Aran’s blush even deeper, searing his face like a burn. Maker, now he’d gone and done it, hadn’t he? “I know that isn’t what you meant,” he began. “It’s just that you don’t have to be such a blighted martyr all of the time.”

“I’m not.”

So serious. Somber eyes that glowed and flickered. A fall of shock white bangs above stark brows. Worry drawing lines into his freckled features. “Don’t look so-“ he paused. Concerned. _Carissimus_ , that note had said. Tevene. His hand, but not. “Ah. So you’ve… with me? Different... Imperium me?That’s- well, you said you’d spent a great deal of time in the Imperium. I can’t really be possessive from myself, can I?” Could he? How much time?

“Dorian-“

“What does he - do I - do there, ‘your carissimus’? You haven’t said.”

“He’s the Archon.”

Dorian could feel the blood drain from him. The heat leave his body. “Father must be overjoyed.”

“He was. Yes. For a time.”

“What did I ask you to do?” He could barely stand to ask.

Aran started, his gaze shifting towards the clouds. “You saw the note.”

“Yes.”

Aran scrubbed his hands through his hair, shoulders hunching. “Fuck.”

“What was it? Capture a Dalish caravan for slavers? Kill a few Magisters to open positions on the consiliare? Participate in a blood ritual?” The stiffening in Aran’s neck was enough. He felt ill. “Maker, what kind of monster am I?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“It’s blood magic. I have a wide variety of things I think about that subject.”

“You didn’t do anything. You just asked me not to stop it.” Aran hissed, pressing his fist to his forehead. “Stupid; that was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t-“

“Tell me.”

Aran bowed his head, exhaling unsteadily, “I let him tear you apart. I watched your father bind you, cut your will from you piece by piece. You asked me to let it happen, and Maker help me, I did. No interruptions. No errors. No leaks.” He shuddered. “He paid me, you know. Halward did. Very well. To guard his investment. It took years to put you back together. Do you understand? Gereon, and Felix, and Rilienus, and Aelia, and Feynriel, and I. Once you’d taken the seat, we undid it. We pieced you back together. Crushed that fucking crystal into dust.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, “Your father was right. It was the only way to get you the title, but not for the reasons he thought. You had to be so heartless… The epitome of everything they all feared. And now they’ve seen that, nothing you will ever do will make them dare to move against you. You are… recklessly free. Furiously happy. Incredibly powerful. And I’m never going to stop making sure that you stay that way.” He lifted his chin, conviction tightening every muscle in his body. “So now you know.”

“He actually did it.” Dorian whispered, “I’d always hoped he wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“I am so sorry, Dorian.”

“And you… ah.” He was so close, close enough to breathe like air, and Dorian had no idea how to cross that infinitesimal distance. “Gereon?”

“He’s helping us figure out this whole mess with the timelines. I punched him the first time I saw him. He was very forgiving, considering he had nothing to do with this in the first place.”

Dorian stared across the camp. The sun was beginning its journey to the horizon, blue sky darkening to purples like a bruise. They were lighting the fire for the night. “How many years?”

“Five in the Imperium. Three to bring you back to us and two of… relative ease, really.”

“Five years.” Maker, that was longer than they’d known each other. Far longer. He had spent more time with this Archon than... the idea churned inside of him. So. He _could_ be jealous of himself. What an interesting experience. Not simply jealous. Envious. Furious. “‘Relative ease,’” Dorian repeated. More time than they’d had together, in relative ease. No missions dragging them apart. What must that be like? Could he ask? Did he want to know? “Consecutive?”

“No.” Aran looked at his hands. “No, it’s been... No. I guess... ‘over the course of five years’ would be more accurate. I think you calculated it somewhere around three in the entirety.”

“The ritual. Mine.” Dorian wet his lips. “Did I ask you before or after?”

“After.”

A cracked laugh escaped him. “At least I knew what I was in for.”

“That’s what you said. And that you already knew how it would turn out.” Aran frowned, “Should I not have told you?”

“No. It’s… I’m glad you did. It’s strange to think of, that’s all.”

“Yes.” Aran agreed, “Strange and awful.”

“So you… and this alternate me…”

“And Ril.”

“Ril.” Dorian sighed, “Curse your southern insistence on shortening perfectly reasonable names into nonsense.”

“You try shouting five syllables when you can’t catch your breath,” he muttered. Ducked his head.

“So you’ve… with him.” Dorian frowned, folding his hands together, pressing his fingertips to his lips. “I had such… dreams of that man.”

“I know.”

“Somniari now, are you?”

“You told me. Other you.” Aran tilted his head to the side, “It’s really confusing, isn’t it? It was for me at first.”

“I see why you keep the notes.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else? Me, and him…” Dorian pursed his lips as Aran reddened.

“Maybe that’s enough for today.”

Dorian studied him. That was certainly an answer. Not enough of one. “I will read it eventually.”

“I didn’t write everything in that book.” All his tells. Hands in his hair, on his face, tugging his ears. “It’s not that I plan on not telling you, Dorian, it’s just that out of context-“

“Aran.”

“And you - other other you - and Bull.”

“I should have guessed that. So when you said you understood…”

“Intimately.”

“Ah. Well, that’s… something.” He wasn’t sure what, exactly. Dorian tried to imagine Aran anywhere in the vicinity of that deranged scene and couldn’t wrap his mind around it. There was rough sex - Aran and he had done plenty of that - and then there was the Bull. Cold, dispassionate control. Aran wasn’t capable of- he thought of those blades pressing into Iron Bull’s skin, drawing blood, hissing into his ear _I_ _trusted_ _you._ Maybe he was. Now. Was he?

“You look really good in ropes.”

“What ropes?!” 

Aran bit his lip, “Okay, so you didn’t get that far here. See. I’m learning things.”

“What ropes?”

Aran shook his head. “And Cole, obviously.”

“This is the one who told you about Rilienus. He’s in Tevinter.”

“No. He’s here.”

“Yes, but which here?”

“All of the heres. Including this one. It’s bugging me that none of you remember him.”

“Why should we?”

“Because he’s… here. He saved my life after Haven. He’s part of the reason you saved me from that despair demon in Skyhold. He’s… gotten you all to forget him. I just don’t know why.”

“He’s a mage, then.”

“No. Compassion spirit.”

Dorian clenched his hands together. “You’re sleeping with a demon.”

“Spirit,” Aran corrected hm, as though it made a difference. “And only sometimes.”

“You’re incredibly stupid. Far more than I’ve previously suspected. How do know so much and so little?”

“Oh, please, you fucked a Desire demon when you were fifteen.”

Dorian gaped, attempted to gather himself, “My, my, but the Archon is a chatterbox.” How? How could anyone know that? Anyone but himself. Maker.

“Anyway, it’s different. He’s not a demon. Ask Solas about it, if he... is he still here? Anyway. You like Cole.”

“He certainly leaves an impression.” Dorian tapped his thumb against the rings of his fingers, pressing his lips together, “Anyone else?”

“Anyone else what?”

“You've slept with. Since you died. While I’ve been _mourning_.”

Aran caught his tongue between his teeth.

“No one else? No southern princes? No women-“ Dorian coughed as Aran carefully looked at the clouds. “Seriously? What - the piratess?” Aran mumbled something under his breath that Dorian suddenly wished he could unhear. “ _You_ _slept_ _with_ _Leliana_?!” he shouted.

“I was drunk-“

“Does anyone else feel like they’ve missed a lot?” Varric asked from his place by the fire, staring over at them.

The Iron Bull crossed his arms. “Go back to the beginning!” he called. “I’ll get the ale!”

“Dorian-“ Aran sighed, exasperated, as Dorian rose from his log, carefully sorting his robes and stalking towards his tent. “I was _really_ drunk. And so was she. It was just the once. Dorian-“

“Don’t follow me.” He turned at the entrance to his tent, “If you go bolting off on another time traveling rendezvous with the spymaster before I wake up in the morning, I will make like my Orlesian counterpart and burn you again.”

”That wasn’t him. That was a different-“

”Do you understand?” Dorian ground out, glaring.

“I will try very hard to control the uncontrollable.”

“Apparently that is your libido,” Dorian snapped, ducking into his tent and closing the flaps behind him.

“So…” He heard Aran grunt, some part of him hitting the ground outside. “He’s a little angry with me. That’s fair. It’s going to be okay. Right?”

“ _Leliana_?” Varric asked, still sounding confused.

“Between dragons and Red… I am going to find you a really good nickname. Chargers-worthy. Something like Tomfool. Moonstruck. Madhouse. Maybe Deathseeker. I’ll put Krem to it.”

“I was very, very drunk and there was this assassin named Zevran-“

“Oh,” Varric said. “Say no more.”

“You know him?”

“Know of him.”

“And?”

“I think I actually heard this story. Deep Roads?”

Aran sighed.

“...she made you sound taller.”


	7. Chapter 7

He felt like an idiot. Dorian did not enjoy feeling like an idiot. True, there had been a number of things that had occurred in the previous week, any one of which might have provided ample excuse for a lesser man to throw an entirely reasonable hissy fit. But he was not a lesser man. He was Dorian, of House Pavus, alternate universe Archon of the Tevinter Imperium. And his lover was the actively time traveling savior of all Thedas.

Truly, he didn’t have a good excuse to be upset at Aran when he got right down to it. They hadn’t discussed any kind of commitment beyond a resolve against secrecy. No mention of monogamy had ever come up as they’d never spoken about what they had as a relationship. Because Dorian hadn’t wanted to. Because he’d been too fearful of what that might mean, and what it might mean if they were to name it and lose it. He’d been perfectly happy to exist in a lengthy untitled physical entanglement with a man who clearly did not lack for stamina or interest.

And then he’d gone and behaved like a jealous fishwife. As though he had some kind of ownership. Some right to feel affronted. He’d behaved like a fool and he wasn’t proud of it.

He just needed to approach the problem reasonably.

It was true. Aran had no control over his current trajectory through time and space. That needed to be resolved. Also, Aran needed to stop thinking he had a right to manhandle Dorian’s life choices, well-meaning or not. Some kind of agreement needed to be reached about what exactly the bounds of the… whatever they had… was. And what that meant.

And, of course, there was the whole Elder God ascension, qunari invasion, darkspawn rising, Grey Wardens potentially raising a demon army that needed to be dealt with. That, too.

He stepped out of his tent into the brisk morning air. Two tents were already packed and stowed against the wheel of a cart. The fire had a black pot bubbling over it, emanating the scent of meat, beans, and spices. Cassandra was reading a long scroll. “Good morning, Seeker.”

She glanced up. “It is morning.”

“I didn’t realize you’d rejoined us.”

“Late in the night.” She nodded to the pot, “Breakfast.”

“Thank you.” He filled a small bowl from the pot and settled to the half-log across from her. “I take it you heard from our spymistress?” He prodded the mash with a wooden spoon.

Cassandra sighed, frustrated, looking up from the scroll, “She has known this whole time. Apparently, her agents have been in contact with the Raiders of the Eastern Seas, as well.” She looked exhausted and furious. Not an excellent combination. Not entirely unusual for Cassandra, either.

“If she had told you, would you have believed her?”

“Would you?” she asked. “You and Varric and Solas were with him in Redcliffe. You went into that future with him. If Leliana had told you that it was time magic when he disappeared-“

Dorian frowned.

“You see. I am right. You would have believed, even if I did not.”

“Perhaps,” he picked up a bean with his spoon, pressed it against the side of the bowl. “Perhaps not. I don’t know.”

“Months, we have wasted in mourning, scrambling, when we could have simply known that he would return.” She gritted her teeth, “She claims she did not know how long it might take for him to come back. Or if he would. It was more practical to act as though he was gone, in case he was.” She snarled, a sound like a muted roar in her throat, “What if these claims, too, are lies? How can we trust her again? How can we afford not to?”

“I don’t know.” Dorian set the bowl aside, no longer hungry. “Aran trusts her.”

“Aran Trevelyan would trust a stick wearing a painted face.” Dorian laughed despite himself, drawing a weary smile from the Seeker. “We must be wiser. Have you learned anything else? Anything that might help to hold him here?”

“I’m working on it. Apparently, there are… others… who have been at the task for years already. Elsewhere.” He frowned, “He’s Fadetouched. It happens to mages who spend too much time across the Veil - dreamwalkers and seers. Between that and the anchor, I think we will need Solas. Perhaps he knows of some binding technique. It may not help with the slippage through time, but perhaps it will help keep Aran as we know him more… intact.”

“I will ask him to prepare to join us,” Cassandra agreed. “The Iron Bull mentioned you were going to the Western Approach via Denerim. Will you return to Skyhold on your way, or take the lower pass?”

“That, I think, will depend on whatever he learns from the King of Ferelden.”

“Let me know. I will send Solas to meet you.”

“You’re not coming?”

She sighed, “I must return to Skyhold and figure out what to do with this… situation we find ourselves in. If Leliana cannot be trusted…” she shook her head. “We will have to see. If you have need of forces at Adamant, Cullen and I will join you there. If- if he goes away again… keep me updated.”

“I will.” He frowned, “Speaking of which, where is he?”

“I had thought he was with you.”

Dorian stood, heart suddenly pounding in his throat, “No.” He’d wasted time; Maker knew how much he had, he couldn’t spare it for pouting. He felt Cassandra rise as well, starting off in the opposite direction. No reason to panic. Varric would have woken him if Aran had trotted off into the Void again. No reason to panic.

“Merciful Andraste…”

He spun on his heel and ran back towards Cassandra, hitting the rise and following her down the hill at a run. His heart caught. The idiot was mid-swing up onto a branch, darting out of the Iron Bull’s reach… No. Thrown there. Bull had tossed him up. Aran had three crossbow bolts clenched between his teeth, pressing his heels to the branch and diving up into the air to grasp a fourth as it flew, falling… falling… landing like a sack of potatoes in Iron Bull’s arms. He hopped free, beaming, holding the bolts aloft. “Thought you said Bianca was quick, Varric?” he panted, leaning his forearms on his thighs as he caught his breath.

Varric snorted. “I was making it easy for you.”

“What in the Maker’s name do you think you’re doing?” Cassandra boomed.

“Seeker! You made it!”

Aran lifted a hand in greeting.

“You! Are you trying to break your neck?”

Aran shook his head, slowly straightening. “Bull caught me.”

“We should try it with a trebuchet,” the qunari grinned. “If I had a little more wind up, I bet I could toss you over a wall.”

“You have,” Aran said. “But not in a fun way. This is better.” He tilted his head back, “Man, that last one almost tripped me up. Thank the gods for that tree.”

“I told you I was making it easy.”

“Again?” the Iron Bull asked.

“Not again!” Cassandra shouted. “Varric!”

Varric rested Bianca on his shoulder. “Just a little bolt catching, Seeker.”

“The Dalish do it with arrows,” Aran supplied helpfully. He was naked from the waist up but for the notebook securely strapped to his back. His lip was bleeding, knuckles raw, the bruises on his back were turning green, fresh ones blossoming around his torso. “They didn’t believe me,” he pointed at Varric and the Iron Bull.

The Iron Bull smirked. “I believed you, Boss. Just wanted to see it for myself.”

“All I said was that Bianca’s faster than Dalish bows.” Varric shrugged. “They were hitting each other with sticks. This is way better. Trust me.”

“‘Men’- you’re little better than children,” Cassandra griped.

“Hey,” Aran said, lifting his chin, peering curiously at Dorian as the mage stalked towards him. “No magic, no magic,” he whispered, holding his hands up.

Dorian grasped his shoulders and drew him in, tipping his head back to kiss that split lip. Aran’s arms latched around him, collected bolts clattering to the ground.

“Hey, I can reuse those-“ Varric complained.

Aran stroked up Dorian’s spine, brushing up the back of his neck. Dorian caught his fingers before they could journey further, drawing a laugh from the rogue in his arms. “Alright, alright, not the hair,” he murmured, hissing slightly when Dorian nipped at his lip. Heart still pounding. Hands shaking as they stroked sweat and dirt streaked skin. “It’s okay, _carissimus_ , I’m here,” he kissed Dorian gently again and again. “I’m right here.”

“Mine,” he whispered against Aran’s lips.

“You got it.”

Dorian stared down at him, stroking his face with his thumbs. “Catching arrows with the Dalish?”

“Yeah. Hunting training. I was pretty shit to start with. The kids ran circles around me. Then I got better.”

“So I see.” Slowly, Dorian let him go.

“We good, Boss?”

Aran grinned at the Iron Bull. “I am. You?”

“No complaints.”

“Excellent.” He kissed Dorian a final time. “Let’s get to Denerim.”

“Going to see a king covered in bruises and blood,” Cassandra frowned. “Maybe I should come with you, after all.”

“It’s fine, Cassandra,” he grinned, at ease, stepping to Dorian’s side, not quite letting go. “It’s probably the only way he’ll recognize me.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Breathe in that salt air!” Aran whooped, galloping down the North Road ahead of the rest of them.

“Acts like we weren’t just on the Storm Coast,” Dorian tried to be sour, but Aran’s joy was infectious.

“You can take the Marcher from the sea, but you can’t take the sea from the Marcher,” Varric chuckled.

“I don’t see you hollering every time you see a wave.”

“I think they spend more time on boats in Ostwick than we do in Kirkwall. Maybe it makes a difference.” He shrugged. “So this is Denerim, eh?”

Dorian peered at the heavy gates, thick walls, barricades at regular intervals leading to the city’s entrance. Trebuchets were prepared and ready beside them. Guards posted everywhere. “It’s very welcoming.”

“Watch your pockets,” the Iron Bull muttered. “Everywhere. Their thieves’ guild is legendary.”

“Come on!” Aran called back over his shoulder. He rode past the line of farmers and merchants waiting for their carts to be inspected, weaving his mare easily through the crowd of foot traffic that clogged the narrow streets within. They followed him through the weaving streets until the tight quarters opened into a wide plaza full of stalls and vendors, jugglers and sword-swallowers. He took a sharp right as they passed the gate to the market district, sliding from his saddle to the ground.

Dorian kept a wary eye out as they left the bustle of the market to the stink of the back alley. “Excellent choice,” he muttered. “Just what I’ve always wanted to experience. Ferelden squalor.”

Aran knocked three times on an unmarked door, then twice, then four times.

“Andraste’s tits, I hear you-” an annoyed, sharp-edged voice called. “Quit banging.” The door swung wide to show a petite elven woman in colorful hosen, her yellow hair cropped tight around her face. “Oh, it’s you, right,” she grinned sideways. “The tarty one said you’d be on your way. Looks like someone’s been using you for a cutting board again.”

Aran shook his head, “I’m fine. I brought some friends. Try not to shoot them.”

“No promises,” she peered past his shoulder at them. The wrinkle of her nose was such that Dorian almost felt like apologizing, though he couldn’t think what for.

Aran kissed her cheek. “You’re being so much nicer than usual. Who’s warming your boots?”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, walking back into the darkness.

“Coming?” Aran asked, stepping in after her.

“Horses, Aran?” Dorian asked, attempting to dismount without stepping in too deep a pile of mud. What he hoped was mud.

“Leave them. The Odd Fellows will take care of them.”

“You’re in the guild.” The Iron Bull snorted, “You know - a lot of things are starting to line up for me, Boss.”

Aran shrugged, “It was an accident.”

“You’re pretty accident prone, then.”

“You can say that again. You probably will.” He grinned, wandering backward into the dark interior of the house. “Little time humor, for you.”

“What is happening?” Varric whispered loudly. “What are we doing here?”

“Red Jenny is taking us to the King of Ferelden.” Aran’s voice filtered back to them from the dark.

“I feel like this is the scene where we get ambushed by Antivan assassins,” Varric muttered, stalking after him. Dorian followed suit, patting his mare on her neck once before stepping inside. It was one long hallway, door frames boarded up on either side. He summoned a light to the end of his staff, feeling the qunari creak the boards behind him. “So she’s Red Jenny?” Varric asked.

“No - she’s- sorry. I forgot you haven’t met before. Guys, this is Sera. Sera, these are Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Varric.”

“Oof. _Those_ kinds of friends. I thought you meant the good kind.”

“So who’s Red Jenny, then?”

“No one,” Aran answered at the same time as the girl - Sera - groaned, “Same old questions, all the time.”

“It’s just a collection of people, the Friends of Red Jenny. Sera’s one.”

“She’s friends with no one?” the Iron Bull asked wryly.

“It’s complicated.” Aran paused at what looked like the entrance to a mine shaft in the floor of the dingy house. Sera was standing on the other side of it, arms crossed, foot tapping.

“Come on, then. Don’t want to keep Mr. Fancy Boots waiting. Put that thing away,” she scowled, pointing at Dorian’s staff.

“There’s a brazier down here I can light,” Aran said, hopping onto the ladder and climbing down.

Dorian dismissed the light, sinking the room into darkness again. “Yes, this is so much better.”

“Right?” He watched her shadow crawl down the hole.

“Reminds me of my Carta days,” Varric chuckled. “Need a hand?”

“I can manage, thank you,” Dorian rolled his eyes to no effect in the dark and climbed down after them. His eyes were adjusting, slowly, as he scooted to the side of the narrow passage to allow the others space to join them. Aran was fumbling with flint and steel near the brazier. “Can I help with that?”

“Keep your woo-woo to yourself.”

“Be nice, Sera,” Aran squinted, twitching the flint and steel together.

“Didn’t say anything about bringing mages.”

“There we are,” the flame caught on a piece of tinder and Aran carefully transplanted it to the brazier, where it bloomed to life. He lit a blackened torch from the flames and winked at Dorian.

“So this is a smuggling tunnel?” Varric asked.

“No, it’s just a tunnel,” Sera said.

“For what?”

“For whatever.”

“What does it mean to be friends with Red Jenny?”

“I’m a Friend _of_ Red Jenny. Not with.”

“And what exactly is the deal with the ‘Friends of Red Jenny’, then? I thought the guild here was-”

“The Association of Odd Fellows,” Aran supplied, far more amused than helpful.

“Right, that. So these Jenny friends are an offshoot?” Varric continued his line of questioning.

“Why are you lot always on about this? We’re not the guild. There's no deal. You just do things.”

“Just... ‘things.’ Like... whatever?”

“Just things.”

Varric squinted. “Like the, what, the hundred or so groups in Kirkwall, that sat around all night dressed as guards or exotic dancers, waiting to jump out and hit someone?”

“Nah, a Friend shut them out. But they were legend, right?”

Dorian touched Aran’s shoulder lightly, “Are we going to have a problem?” he asked, glancing towards Sera.

“No. She’s just touchy with magic. It’s nothing personal.” He kissed Dorian’s fingers, “Don’t worry.”

“Here’s a question- why aren’t we just going to the Palace? You know - that place with all the tapestries and wine?”

“Because Alistair can’t talk Grey Warden business in the throne room. It’ll make people nervous.” Aran grinned at him, “I promise there are tapestries and wine where we’re going.”

“They all know he’s a Grey Warden, though. That’s part of his legend.”

“No one really believes stories about kings. Even when they think they do,” Sera muttered. “Why do you think people are always so surprised when they see this one shut one of those Fade buttonholes?”

“Quicksilver isn’t a king,” Varric said. “He’s the Inquisitor.”

“Does he live in a fancy castle?”

“We just found him in an abandoned thaig,” Varric argued.

“Fine. A fancy ancient dwarven castle. Or a fancy ancient elven castle. Same difference. Does he have an army? Does he hang out with kings and emperors and the like? Does he decide the fate of the little people who can’t do shit about it?” Sera put her fists on her hips, staring at the dwarf. Varric frowned, glancing at Aran. “See? Only thing that makes him not a king is he doesn’t wear a fancy hat most days.”

“Most days?” Dorian asked. “You wear fancy hats?”

Aran shrugged, smiling at him sideways. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You gonna argue this, Quicksilver?”

“I try not to argue with Sera. Did she say something wrong?” Aran asked.

“You… don’t really think you’re a king, do you?”

“Am I a king, Sera?”

“Fuck no,” she laughed. “Maker, that’d be the day.”

“Still not arguing with her, then,” Aran shrugged.

“But you just said-”

“That people don’t believe the stories. They believe what they want, enough to make them feel safe. That’s enough.”

“She has a strange sort of wisdom, doesn’t she?” Dorian murmured.

“You never get used to it.”

Eventually, the mine shaft became a stone tunnel, then opened onto a wider tunnel filled with barrels. A set of stone stairs led up to a wooden door. “Hey, you,” Sera tapped Aran’s shoulder as he started up. “You here for good?”

Dorian watched him frown. The tension that had fled with the fighting and sea and ridiculously circular chatter with the elven girl started filling him back up. “Probably not.”

“You know - I saw Creepy about a month ago.”

Aran blinked. “Where?”

“Headed to Crestwood, it was.”

“How was he? Did he seem alright?”

“It seemed creepy. That’s enough about that. Just thought you’d want to know.” She kicked the stairs with an untied boot, “After this thing with Fancy Boots, what then?”

“Grey Wardens, demons, rifts, madness-”

“Until you poof.”

“Pretty much.”

“You keeping these ones with you?”

“If they want, yes.”

She frowned. “Fine.”

“It’s demons, Sera, I didn’t think you’d want in.”

“Well, it’s you, innit?”

“You want to come along?”

“Pfft, it’s demons. No! I don’t!” She growled, “But I will, okay? Just until you poof.”

“Thanks.” Aran rubbed his knuckles against his jaw, sniffing a bit. “It’ll be good to have you at my back again.”

“Ugh. Go away.”

Aran held up a fist and she tapped it three times with her own. “Eat ‘em.”

“Ate ‘em.”

“Out,” they said together and grinned. He kissed her forehead and jogged up the stairs, opening the door onto a raucous sounding tavern. She followed him with her eyes, concerned, then turned to stare at him. “I feel you looking at me, magic-toes. Eyes off,” she sneered and shoved past them back down the tunnel.

“Anyone else think the Boss makes some weird friends?”

Dorian looked at the Iron Bull, brows lifted, then looked at Varric, then back again.

“You’re no picnic yourself,” Varric smirked.

Dorian smiled sweetly. “Shall we ask him?”

The Iron Bull crossed his massive arms across his chest. “Just because you put his balls in your mouth doesn’t make you less weird than the rest of us.”

“ _Is_ he a king?” Varric asked, mostly to himself.

“You all coming, or am I doing this by myself?” Aran leaned against the doorframe looking down at them.

The tavern was less a tavern and more a brothel, but they did have a good selection of wines. Dorian perused the Pearl’s list absently in the well-appointed bedroom. The Iron Bull tugged on one of the posts of the four-poster bed curiously.

“Anything good?” Varric asked.

“There’s a Legacy Shear and a brunette who was quite appealing,” Dorian murmured, watching Aran paging through his notebook.

The ivory-headed rascal looked up curiously. “Which one?”

“I was joking.”

“Oh.” He blinked, started to speak, went back to his notebook. Aran was serious, then. No trace of jealousy or possessiveness. Not just Bull, then. Literally anyone.

Horrifying. Wondrous?

Dorian was fairly certain this was not how people acted when they were in love. The words were a claim as much as an offer, a precursor to couple-dom. Only couple-dom didn’t seem to be on Aran’s mind at all. Was that love? Could it be? It felt the way he’d imagined it might- better: the way Aran leaned into his touch, tracked him with his eyes, the way they spoke and connected, the unparalleled wanting- but that was lust, not love. Yes? Lust and companionship and… what? Did it matter? He touched his staff as the door opened and a pair of hooded figures stepped inside. One was short, too short for the king of Ferelden, surely, although he was certain people said the same of Aran with his five feet nine inches. The other was tall but had a distinctly elven build beneath the cloak.

Aran grinned. “No one trusts me,” he said with such joy it made the Iron Bull laugh. “Did he send you to make sure it was me? Or to make sure I wasn’t being nefarious? Because I’m definitely being nefarious.”

The elf chuckled, a dark, dripping sound as he swept across the room and pressed his hands to Aran’s cheeks. “As though no days have passed,” he murmured, shaking his head. His hood fell to his shoulders, revealing long, braided, golden hair and high cheekbones. “That I had your curse, my friend.”

“As if you need it,” Aran snorted, though he did carefully draw the man’s fingers from his face with a wry smile, studiously not looking towards Dorian. Instead, he ducked to the side, muttering, “So who’s your- wait, what are you doing here?”

The dwarven woman crossed her arms. “I heard the Inquisitor was back from the dead. I wanted to see it for myself.”

“If I’d known you were back, I wouldn’t have bothered Alistair.” She was beautiful, in the way of marble and steel, the outline of a heavy mace beneath her cloak. And she was staring at him as though her gaze might drill into Aran’s head. “You felt the Call,” he whispered. “Is that why?”

She sighed. A Warden, then. Knowing the company he seemed to keep, likely The Warden. They were drowning in heroes.

“It’s not real,” Aran said. “I swear it’s not.”

“We knew it couldn’t be,” she whispered, relief in her voice. “Not all of us at once. But I had to see him anyway.” Her lips wobbled just a touch, “You’re sure?”

“This time, yes.”

She exhaled slowly. “Good.” She brushed her hood back, revealing a pile of deep red hair, braids running through it like eddies in an ocean. “Mead, then, I think.” She leaned back against the door behind her, “Anyone else? I’m not dying. This is a good day.”

Varric cleared his throat, staring meaningfully at Aran.

“If you want a drink, just order it,” Aran scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Oh. Right. Ah… Varric, this is Grimna Aeducan, of the Grey Wardens. Grimna, Varric Tethras, of the-”

“I’m a great fan of your work, Varric Tethras,” she shook his hand.

“And I of yours, my lady.”

She shook her head. “Mine was a group effort. Your novels are a delight.”

“Do I have to stay in this closet all night?” a voice whined from behind the wardrobe doors. “You know this happened with you lot before, if I recall. The noises still haunt my dreams.”

“It’s not locked, Alistair,” Grimna chuckled.

“Oh! Really?” The door opened. “Would you look at that,” the King of Ferelden wrinkled his nose. “You couldn’t have pretended it was, to save my reputation?”

“What reputation?” she asked on a laugh.

He shrugged. “I’ve been working on that. Something to do with bears, I’m thinking.” He patted Aran on the shoulder, “Nice to see you. Can we drink now?”

“No- I mean, you can.” Aran laughed. Nervous. “So - you heard the Call, too, I gather. I was telling Grimna-”

“It’s not real. Yes, I heard. It’s a wardrobe, not an iron door. Are you a real qunari or one of the other ones?” he asked, turning to the Iron Bull.

“Real.”

“Well, then I thank your people for the help with those raiders a few months ago. That dreadnaught was impressive.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

“I’m Alistair, by the way.”

Grimna laughed, “They know who you are.”

“What? Oh, yes, silly me.” He dropped onto the chest at the foot of the bed. “You know, the one thing I like about being King is that usually people tell me who I’m talking to. Where are you going?”

Aran glanced up from the doorway. “Oh, I was just- going to- get Grim’s mead?”

“Excellent. Bring me up a tankard while you’re at it. And some food!” he called as Aran ducked out. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff they’ve been serving now that we’re housing Orlesian dignitaries. Bleh. Who are you all, by the way?”

Dorian eyed the door curiously as they introduced themselves and the others fell into bantering about Varric’s coverage of the Kirkwall riots. “Now why, I wonder, is my old friend so nervous, do you know?” the elf - Zevran - asked, dropping onto the chaise beside him with an easy smile. “Ahh, you are the jealous type, is that it? I, too, would be nervous to upset a mage. Not so nervous as to be dissuaded, but nervous nonetheless. In fact, I have upset quite a few. One in particular - she was a terrible sport.”

Dorian glanced at him, “How long has it been for you all since you’ve seen him?”

“Five years, for me. Perhaps… eight or nine for Grimna. Alistair, I’ve no idea.”

“What were you up to five years ago?” Dorian tilted his head, “He was in the Chantry-“

“Yes, he was, but also he was with Isabela and I doing very knavish things. I assure you. Quite a good time was had by all- except your people, of course. The Imperium is not a great fan of our mutual friend.”

“They’re not a great fan of mine, either.”

“And yet, he is nervous and you are watchful.”

“Hardly,” he leaned back in the chaise with an artful smile.

“I am glad to hear it. Perhaps you should let him know, so that I may have my friend back, if you please.” He folded his hands across his stomach, eyeing the filigreed ceiling. “I grew up in a place such as this. They say you can never go home again, but for ten silvers an hour you can get pretty close.”

Dorian smiled. “Ten silvers. My, I thought Crows were more in the hundreds.”

“Only for blood. For other fluids, we are quite economical.”

“Fascinating.” He was captivating, all warm honey and spice and the promise of something - anything - you might think to wish for. Between drink - which he and Aran both had a historic fondness for - and men - more historic weakness, especially for the rare, dangerous, and clearly willing variety… No. Even so, he still could not imagine Leliana. Aran had never cast a passing glance at a woman, not even those Dorian himself managed to find moderately interesting. Leliana? She was terrifying. Cold as stone.

“You look as though you might be ill, my friend. Perhaps I spoke out of turn. We did not kill so many of your countrymen. Mostly, we stole artifacts.”

“Oh, I don’t care- what artifacts? Never mind, I’ll ask him about it another time.”

“Is it me? I am not so threatening, I promise. Unless someone wants you dead. Does someone? Perhaps someone with a great deal of gold?”

“What? No. I don’t-” He shook his head, smiling despite himself as he realized, “ _You_ make sense. I suppose I rather thought I should be bothered, but I’m not.”

“Ah, the little nightingale perplexes you.” Zevran rested his cheek on his knee, lifting a brow, “They used to pray together, you know. Speak the Chant. All of it. Terribly dull for the rest of us.”

“I always thought it was soothing,” Alistair added, wandering over to them to perch on an ottoman.

“This from the other Chantry child.”

“It kept them from complaining about my cooking.”

“I stand corrected.”

Dorian laughed.

“But you will admit you talk about the Chantry all of the time.”

“As you speak of whorehouses, Zevran. That’s what people do, on endlessly long marches through darkspawn infested territory. They discuss their childhoods. Simpler, happier times.”

“Is that why you think I talked about it?” Zevran laughed, “Really? Go on.”

Alistair looked confused. “...you know, I don’t think I want to know.”

“As you wish, your Majesty.”

Aran nudged the door open, pushing a cart. “If these were scrolls instead of bottles, I could be right back in Welkin’s study. Right. Who ordered Benzical’s History of Divine Aster?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a night of drinking with the Hero of Ferelden, the King of Ferelden, and the Zevran of all things death and elven, Dorian wakes to hear Aran trying to help resolve Grimna Aeducan's heartache. In doing so, he explains a lot of what's been happening through his travels and how he feels about Dorian.
> 
> Dorian and Aran, it turns out, love each other a lot. I know, it really surprised me, too. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very intimate men making up in a very physical way. If graphic m/m is not to your taste... re-read the summary and I'll see you at the next chapter.

Dorian woke slowly, sprawled on the chaise next to several bottles of wine and a liquor-soaked elf. He lay still, taking stock of clothing and lights, and came to the conclusion that the drink had not resulted in anything too untoward.

“Are you sure we can’t help?” Grimna was asking quietly.

Dorian glanced towards the desk where Aran perched soberly beside the dwarven woman, their heads bent together in conversation. “I think the farther you are from Adamant the better, right now. I haven’t seen you there before. Don’t know what adding more elements might do to the situation.”

She frowned, “Very well.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“To watch him with his queen?” she asked, sighing when Aran rested a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know. Mayhap. It’s hard. I can’t just...” She studied him, “How do you do it?”

“What? With Dorian? We take turns, depends on the day. I can give you specifics if you really need them.”

She punched him in the arm with a hushed laugh, “You know what I mean.”

“Ow. Gauntlets. Ow.” Aran rubbed his shoulder dramatically, then shrugged, “He’s one of my constants. And because of a psychotic wannabe god who I have already killed twice, I can’t be constant for him right now. Why would I deny him anything that gave him joy?”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

Aran smiled gently. “It doesn’t feel like there is a cost. It’s… good. I get to know and see that he’s whole and happy, even when I can’t be there, and sometimes I get to share in that, which- is really bloody amazing. But then… Dorian has excellent taste. And Alistair eats grey soup.”

Grimna snorted, “Ah, he does. I do love that idiot.”

“Sometimes he’s an idiot, true. But he’s brave. He says what he means. And he loves you.”

“He does. For all the good it does either of us.”

“Have you spoken to Anora? Has he?”

Grimna scowled.

“Did you go to Weisshaupt because you were jealous? Or because you didn’t want to play second fiddle? What if you could find some way to be equals? Talk it out?”

Grimna rolled her eyes. “You think everything can be talked out.”

“Most things can.”

She shook her head, “I don’t think this is one of those things, Aran. Too much stubbornness on all sides, mine included.”

“You make the first move, others will follow. You taught me that.”

“I did.” She frowned, “Do you all feel like equals?”

“I can’t speak for anyone else. I think we do. Most of the time. When I don’t, I brood and then talk about it. When he doesn’t, he drowns in research and wine and then eventually he talks about it. Bull hits things with sticks and then talks. Rilienus dresses me up like a mannequin and is very liberal with his pins while he talks. Cole talks about bloody everything all the time anyway. Are you noticing a theme?” He smiled, “All relationships are negotiations and gambles. I like negotiating. Dorian likes gambling. Everyone meets in the middle.”

“It sounds complicated.”

“It’s practice. You’re good at that. And giving a shit. You’re also good at that. Listening. Again, skills. Lots of listening. And it doesn’t work with jealousy. So, that would be something you would all need to address.” He sighed, “I’m not saying it will work. I’m saying you have to fight for what’s in your heart and try to find what works for you. Void and Deep, I don’t even know if it will work for Dorian.”

“What- oh, you mean this Dorian. Well… Of course, it will. It’s been grand for the others, hasn’t it? Why would this be any different?” She frowned, “He’s still Dorian, isn’t he? Here or there or- they’re all the same-”

“No.”

Dorian stared at the gilded ceiling, sure his ears were glowing from the effort of deciphering their whispers.

“But he’s still-”

“No,” Aran insisted. “He is, but he isn’t. What we experience makes us who we are. He’s had different experiences here than the other times, which means he’s different. Every time that I see him in, he’s different. Like a mosaic, a thousand different sides of one person. All with the kindest heart, the smartest mouth, and unfathomable fucking grooming.”

“He is pretty,” she chuckled.

“He’s not pretty. Zevran is pretty. Dorian is... dynamic. He’s living art. If you could only watch him cast; it’s... ah, athletic. His arms- gods, his back. The way he reads- you can almost see the words in his expressions. He’s so… ah, his eyes- Or get him talking about metaphysics and he’ll rail at you for an hour, but you’ll come away feeling smarter- It's not just that he knows more about how magic works than anyone I've ever met, it’s the way he talks about it, the patience and thoughtfulness in how he tailors explanations to whoever he’s with. Grimna, he’s just… ah, Maker, and his hands-”

Dorian breathed unsteadily. Had he wondered? Had he doubted the rapid beat of his own heart? The feel of Aran’s pulse? The weight of his gaze? Lust? Had he thought this was mere lust? Heavier. Stronger. Insistent.

Grimna was shaking her head, “Draw me a picture, it’ll save some time.” She glanced towards him, brows lifting as she met his gaze. Saw he was awake. Listening. Dorian winced, sitting up. “Aran,” she said softly.

“I’ll stop. I got off track.” Aran rolled his eyes, laughing, “What I’m saying is- different people are different. What you figure out with Alistair and Anora, if you all do, that will be completely different from what we have sorted... I mean, what I’ve figured out in Tevinter is different from Cadash’s Inquisition which is different from Orlais which is different from... you get the idea. What am I going to do if he doesn’t want this?”

“Aran-”

“How do I explain that I can’t lose him? He’s my home. How do I break his heart three times to keep him?”

Dorian rubbed his chin, standing slowly. “Aran,” he murmured, watching as the ivory-headed fool nearly broke his neck in the turning of it. He held out his hand. “Air, I think. Shall we partake of it?”

Grimna squeezed Aran’s hand, “Good talk.”

“Yeah.” Aran swallowed uneasily, nodding.

Outside, dawn was breaking rose and orange behind the rooftops of Denerim. “How much?”

“A fair bit,” Dorian studied him.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“So I gathered.” Dorian brushed wrinkles from his robes, padding back and forth on the brothel’s front step. “You overshare, did you know that?”

Aran winced, dropping to sit on the stair, leaning against the stonework. “Yes.”

There was so much, so much between them that needed careful handling and thoughtful dialogue. What to say? How to explain what he’d felt hearing Leliana’s name from Aran’s lips? How to express the fear and anger he felt every time he kissed that hand-shaped burn scar on Aran’s throat? How to address the hundred and twelve things that were wrong, mad, insufferable about knowing that he would be gone again, with no warning and no way of knowing how or when he might return? The fellow - this scarred and dashing, nimble time-wanderer who tried to read books from his eyes (Maker, who taught him how to seduce a man through his own description?) - looked miserable. “I do, as well,” he said instead. Simpler and more complex.

It was a dance- the movement of those shock white brows. Together, up, apart, like wings unfurling, the eyes beneath widening. “Dorian.”

“I hadn’t said.”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“Well.”

Aran swallowed. “Well.”

Waiting. He was sitting there, waiting. For what? An invitation? “You could kiss me, you know. Sure, you’ll natter on like a Chantry girl, but get you alone-“ He braced when the other man catapulted towards him, caught Aran around the waist, inhaling him like air, pulling him tight. They fit together, just so, Aran a couple scant inches shorter, enough to force him to tilt his head, bare his neck, breathe a little deeper. Narrow and dense in his arms, sharp-edged and lean as the daggers he carried like extensions of himself now. They breathed together, taking turns, noses brushing like the shoulders of strangers in a crowd, passing.

“Dorian-“

“It’s very nice, this talking - you’re right, communicating is going to be key - but I am not a nice man. So here is my proposal: we dispense with the chit-chat and move on to something more primal. We have a nice brothel here, full of beds just waiting to be used for terrible purposes. So why don’t you fuck me-” Dorian asked softly, breathing hot against his ear. “-in a bed for once?”

Aran groaned, pulling him back towards the door. “Come.”

“You first.” Dorian grasped the growing bulge of Aran’s trousers, nudging him back against the brothel's door, through it. Aran thrust into his hand as they moved across the empty foyer, whimpering as Dorian released him to open the door to the main room.

“Dorian-“

Dorian shook his head, crossing to the matron and pressing a handful of gold to her book. “Not the second floor.”

She glanced at the gold, at him, “If you need company-“

“I have what I need.” Dorian exhaled slowly, steadying, and looked over his shoulder at the man behind him, flushed and fair vibrating. “But we shall see what stamina demands.” He was rewarded by a surprised ‘oh?’ from Aran as he took the offered key and nudged him ahead towards the room. Inside, as he turned the key, he moaned as Aran took a firm hold of his ass, stroking and palming the firm, flexing muscles as he kissed the side of Dorian’s neck.

"What stamina demands?" he breathed hot, licking the back of Dorian's ear.

"I am willing to entertain a discussion. Later." He backed back into Aran's hands. “My hands, you were saying? Arms? Eyes?”

“Fishing for compliments?” Aran smirked, landing a sharp slap to Dorian’s ass that made him hiss and thrust back at the same time. Maker, maybe he had been spending time with Bull…

“Always. Ah-” He swallowed, bracing against the door as Aran took hold of his cock through his robes, caught between those sinfully knowing fingers wrapped around him and the hand squeezing and rubbing his ass. He could taste his pulse on the back of his tongue as he pressed from the wall; Aran’s lips and tongue tasting his bare shoulder.

“Where to begin?” Aran whispered, releasing his cock to brush his fingers up the front of Dorian’s robes. Dorian leaned back against him, watching as buckles and straps were undone and cloth unfolded to reveal bare flesh. Taut nipples in an expanse of caramel. Aran’s fingers tangled in his dark, curling chest hair, kneading at his pectoral muscles, dancing out to brush and tease his nipples. “I love your skin. Like warm sand, all sun-stained and spiced.” Dorian groaned, rocking his ass back into Aran’s palm as he took in the sight of those pale, nimble fingers exploring his chest, his small clothes straining beneath. “I love your chest. You’re so strong. Firm-” He turned Dorian to face him, keeping his grip on his ass, and bent to take one tight nipple between his lips and tongue.

Dorian’s head fell back against the door on a moan and was just as soon being kissed to light-headedness.

“Pay attention,” Aran whispered. “You wanted compliments. I have a long list.”

“Aran-”

Aran pressed his hips forward, rubbing his tented trousers to Dorian’s loincloth. “Do you see what you do to me? You make me so hard.” He squeezed Dorian’s ass, pulling him tighter against him as he pressed their cocks together.

“Yes,” Dorian moaned, reaching down to grip that thick line of flesh. He could feel the heat through the cloth, the twitch of muscle as his fingers closed around it. Aran pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the side, pulsing in Dorian’s hand. Dorian licked his lips, leaning in to kiss bared shoulders, neck, chest… smiling as he felt Aran unlacing his trousers and pushing them down to give Dorian better access to his cock. It wept against his palm, hot and hard. “Yes, I see.”

“Take a closer look,” Aran slapped his ass lightly, then nudged him down. “I’ll tell you about your mouth.”

Dorian raked his teeth across Aran’s nipple, kissing his way down his firm, scarred torso, licking the tender trail of soft, blonde hairs that led down to that dripping member. Aran pushed his robes from his shoulders as he sank and Dorian shook his arms free of the sleeves, taking hold of Aran’s thigh and ass as he licked the waiting, wet head of his dick. Salt and slick on his tongue. Aran’s fingers brushed the edges of his hair - ears, the back of his neck, his forehead. Dorian groaned and took the head between his lips, sucking more of Aran’s precum.

“Ah- yes, your tongue, I love the way you taste me, savoring my cock,” Aran groaned, gently pulsing into Dorian’s mouth, his fingers tracing the lines of Dorian’s muscles where they flexed with the motion of his head and jaw. Dorian took hold of the base of Aran’s shaft and squeezed, taking more of it into his mouth. “I love the feel of your lips on my skin, your fucking mustache- the way it brushes against me when you kiss my jaw, my chest, my balls- now, teasing my skin while you suck my-”

Dorian panted a laugh, lifting Aran’s cock to take his balls into his mouth, lapping at them and sucking them as they tightened under his tongue, taking care to brush his mustache against them, rubbing his upper lip up the underside of Aran’s sock before swallowing him whole again. Aran’s hand cupped the back of his head, guiding him deeper, massaging his jaw muscles as he opened and took the head of the other man’s cock against the back of his throat.

“Ah- yeah, the way you work me over- get me nice and wet- I am going to fuck you so hard-” He groaned as Dorian bobbed on his cock, sucking and salivating over his head and shaft. Dorian breathed hard through his nose, grunting as Aran carefully fucked his face, holding his head as he thrust into his mouth. “Fuck- okay, okay-” He drew his hips back and Dorian followed with his mouth, sucking and licking at his weeping cock.

Power. He had power over this man who wanted him so much. He crawled forward, grappling Aran into place to suck him harder, deeper.

“Dorian- I can’t-”

“You will.” He cupped Aran’s balls in his hand, palming them as he kissed along the throbbing line of his shaft, “Do you know how I know?”

“Hn-” Aran panted.

“Because you would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck- yes-” Aran hissed, “Anything I’m capable of, Dorian- you’re tearing me apart, here-”

Dorian kissed the base of his shaft, stroking his hips, thighs, ass… “Reprieve, then.”

“Thank you,” Aran swallowed, helping him stand, kissing the taste of himself from Dorian’s tongue, “thank you, thank you.” He grinned, panting, and hooked his fingers into the folds of the loincloth, unfolding the fabric. “Get on the bed.”

Dorian laughed, “Demanding.”

“Please get on the bed.”

“I didn’t say I minded,” Dorian smirked, kicking free of the unwound cloth and climbing onto the bed on his hands and knees. He peered back over his shoulder, “ _Hoc modo_?”

Aran kicked his boots off, stumbling a little as he escaped his trouser legs, “Yes- gods- you’re beautiful, the way you move-” He dabbed his tongue at his lips, crawling onto the bed behind Dorian.

Dorian watched him. The room was chock full of mirrors. Perfect for sex and scrying, both, he thought absently, then groaned as Aran stroked the globes of his ass, squeezing his upper thighs as he drew Dorian’s legs apart.

Aran bent with a sigh, pressing Dorian’s asscheeks apart to kiss the tight, puckered hole between them. Dorian hissed, holding himself steady, watching as Aran licked and sucked at his entrance, his eyes falling shut in pleasure. And Maker, it felt good. He’d never had a lover so enamored of his hole in this way before- not with his mouth, lips, tongue- the way it pressed into him, dabbing deeper and deeper, licking him from the inside out. Dorian rocked his hips back onto that fucking tongue despite himself, reaching back to fumble at Aran’s head. He’d never seen it, watched it, like this- the way Aran rocked his face and jaw forward, thrusting with his tongue, closing his lips around it to kiss the entrance as he drove his tongue deeper still.

“Yes- yes- _kaffas_ -” He cursed as Aran’s fingers pressed in on either side of his tongue, twisting and stroking his channel. “Ah, fuck,” he shuddered, eyes crossing as those nimble fingers found and prodded that place inside of him that made the world white hot and glistening.

“Good?” Aran panted against him, kissing the curve of his ass. “Ready?”

“Yes-”

“Good.” Aran kissed the base of his spine, rising onto his knees. He tapped the wet head of his cock against Dorian’s entrance, squeezing his precum onto and into his hole, and slowly worked his way in. Thicker than fingers and tongue, firmer. Dorian flexed his tongue against his teeth, relaxing, taking him in inch by sturdy inch. “So tight,” Aran whispered, breathless, drawing back to fuck Dorian with just the tip of his cock for a few moments before driving forward again. “Good- are you good?”

Dorian grunted in answer, breathing through the thrusts, working himself back onto Aran’s cock. Good? He wasn’t good. He was in ecstasy. He was full and fucked, his cock was so hard he could feel its weight dragging at his flesh, and this madman was thrusting into him while touching him so frustratingly gently, tracing his spine, his hips, asking if he was alright as he drove him over the edge. He nearly screamed as Aran pulled out of him, shifting to the side to look into his face.

“Dorian-”

“There are mirrors bloody everywhere. What are you doing?” he panted. “Get back there.”

Aran smiled, too fucking warm and sweet and delighted.

Dorian groaned as Aran’s thumb pressed into him, pressing hard into that spot- that damned spot, “ _Fasta vass_ -”

“Better?”

“Than your cock? No.” Dorian shuddered as Aran pressed harder, again, again. The air felt crystallized in his lungs, he couldn’t keep his eyes open, his pulse was too rapid, rabid, “Aran-”

“Better?” he asked again.

“How-”

Aran rolled him onto his back with a shove, grinning, and hoisted his hips up, sliding his cock back inside of Dorian to the hilt in one sharp movement that slammed perfectly against that same point again, again, again. Dorian moaned, splayed wide and impaled and not giving a good goddamn. Aran kissed him hard, “I love you, Dorian. I love you so fucking much it hurts.”

Dorian couldn’t catch his breath. He was seeing stars, unable to focus, to speak- every thrust set him back to the starting line, sending sparks through his veins. He knew he was moaning, he could hear it, maybe it was Aran, he tried to breathe, but the air that touched his tongue only made him twitch and seize and shake. His whole body shuddered as he came, every individual muscle experiencing its own release all at once. And, sweet Andraste, he could feel Aran pulse and pour into him, roll after roll, quaking as he came inside of him.

Aran’s forehead landed against Dorian’s shoulder, sweat dripping cold onto his warm flesh. Lips brushed and kissed what skin he could without moving from that spot. Dorian stroked the back of his neck idly, twisting Aran’s mussed ivory hair between his fingers. “Stamina?”

Aran laughed, cracked and hollow and off-breath.

“Another time, then,” Dorian murmured.

“Love you.”

“Keep telling me,” Dorian mumbled, succumbing to exhaustion with Aran slumped over him, still inside of him.

“I love you, I love you, I love you-”

He didn't know how much longer Aran whispered the words against his skin. How many times. They were the last thing he heard as he fell asleep. And the first thing he heard when next he woke.


	10. Chapter 10

The Pearl’s kitchen was close and hot, the fire full and warm beneath an enormous cauldron of boiling water: a steady, steaming reminder of the new day and the work it entailed.

“You know, I should be insulted,” Alistair muttered piquedly, spreading an unreasonable amount of jam onto a piece of toast. “Who walks out on a king? I didn’t even get a bow or anything.”

“You were passed out,” Aran laughed, taking the bench across from him. He was happy. Light. Lighter than he’d been since they’d found him again. Steady, warm, and delighted. And as that gaze swept over him, Dorian wanted nothing more than to drag him back to bed. “Are you going to eat?” he asked.

Dorian waved a hand, more to waft away the scent of food than anything. Maker, he’d had too much to drink. The hangover he’d had waking in a brothel bed with his true love was… actually entirely in keeping with every other time he’d ever woken in a brothel bed. Only this time, he’d been met by those too-pleased, otherworldly Fadeshot eyes peering down at him. Love. Real and present and altogether making his aching head and the tang of nausea in the back of his throat so very worth it.

Eggs. They were eating eggs. He was going to be sick.

At least he wasn’t the only one who seemed to be greeting the morning warily. Even Varric was moving with a certain amount of care. Zevran’s warm, inviting smile had been replaced by a decidedly green pallor. Perhaps that was envy? The elf pressed a hand to his mouth as a plate of sausages passed under his face. No. Hangover. He was in good company.

Only Alistair, Grimna, and Aran seemed unaffected by the late night. Dorian cleared his throat, warily attempting to speak without groaning in the process, “Has anyone spied the Iron Bull?”

“Not there when I woke up,” Varric grunted, prodding nervously at a spoonful of eggs.

“You know this one,” Dorian nodded towards Aran, “has an old friend with a hangover cure in Redcliffe. It occurs to me, we should recruit her. Have her mass market that remedy. Make the Inquisition a fortune.”

“To the Void with that, I’ll make her a Bann,” Alistair squinted. “What’s her name? Redcliffe, you say?”

“She’s happy where she is.” The look of patent sympathy he offered Dorian was offset by the subtle quirking of his lips. They’d see the next time Aran woke feeling like he’d been beaten in the head how he liked being smirked at. “And you,” Aran continued, pointing at Alistair, “are fine.”

“I have darkspawn blood coursing through my veins. I don’t wince and whine at every pain. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” He piled eggs onto his jammy toast and took a massive bite. “You cad.”

Varric gagged.

“My heart, my one and only,” Grimna mockingly fanned herself.

“A man with a hearty appetite is a man who has great stamina.”

“Who told you that?” Aran snorted.

Alistair pointed at the Crow.

Zevran leaned forward, opening his mouth to speak, then frowned and shut his eyes. “I may go back to bed.”

Exactly the idea he had. Pity how saving the world seemed to require so many early mornings. Dorian met Aran’s gaze, offering a wan smile in answer to Aran’s grin. Oh, the Marcher was pleased as punch. No doubt about that. He’d been humming catches of various tunes all morning. “We should find Bull and get going,” he was saying, chewing a lemon balm leaf, sipping his tea. “The longer Adamant goes unchecked… well. I don’t want to deal with it if it’s gone unchecked.” The idea of getting onto a horse sounded decidedly awful at the moment, but worth it. So worth it for the shiver he felt being subjected to that warm, happy, loving grin. All crooked and promising and just a bit mad.

“Then let’s check it,” the Iron Bull ducked through the kitchen door, loose and easy. “Found the horses. Got ‘em saddled.”

“Thank you.”

“You are going to need a Warden with you, though, aren’t you?” Alistair sliced pickles to add to his eggs. This was why everyone thought Fereldens were barbarians. “I know, I know, Grimna says you don’t want us there for some ridiculous reason, but - really, Aran - we haven’t had an opportunity to murder some of those toady darkspawn in years.”

“It’s other Wardens, not darkspawn.” Aran stood, brushing his knees free of crumbs from the table. “It’s better if you stay here, safe. You have a country to run, don’t you?” He glanced at Grimna, “Things to talk about?”

She sighed, nodded. “Be safe.”

“Me?” Aran laughed. “You get funnier all the time.” He rounded the table to shake Alistair’s hand, kiss Grimna’s head, rest his hand at the back of Zevran’s neck. “It’s been really good to see you again. All of you.”

“You say that,” Zevran murmured, leaning back into Aran’s hand with a smirk.

“Yep.” He squeezed lightly, shaking his head, “It’s weird. I’ve never actually said goodbye before. Usually I just… feel the flux and scramble for my notes.”

Grimna studied him. “Just fix my Order and come back. Here. To this time. This world.”

“I’ll do my best, Warden-Commander.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with old friends has unexpected results.
> 
> (Trigger warning: PTSD depiction.)

There had been a rainbow over the Drakon most of the day. The rain they’d slogged through had turned to a mist so mild it barely felt like anything more than a breeze. Dusk was settling like a warm blanket over the day. The fire was burning bright and strong in the middle of camp. And Aran was curled against his side like a cat: a lean, silvery, practically purring cat who seemed intent on trying to merge with his flesh. Dorian tucked his cloak around them both, hugging the other man to his side.

Content. Maker, how long since he’d felt that kind of pleasant serenity?

Two days out of Denerim. Knowing Aran was there. Beaming into wind and rain as they rode, arms casting out as they galloped over the hilltops. Small touches and smiles as they set and broke camps. They hadn’t seen so much as a bandit. Just travel, stories, companionship, hope. Hope. He could feel it swelling again, so strong, in his breast. Could see the shine of it in Varric and the Iron Bull. Whatever else had happened to Aran, that infectious strength of purpose and denial of obstacles had not waned.

“Anyone else get the feeling we’re not so much saving the world as trapped in an Orlesian ballad?” Varric asked. He’d been writing for the better part of the journey, filled to the brim with the stories he’d collected from the Hero of Ferelden, the exiled Crow of Antiva, and the King.

Dorian chuckled. “I only pray it’s one of the good ones.”

“There are good ones?” Sera sliced at strips of wood, binding feathers in place, sharpening her arrows.

“Certainly. Sometimes someone lives to tell the tale.” Dorian rested his chin atop Aran’s head, eyeing Varric, “That’s good news for you, isn’t it?”

“When you put it that way.”

“Exact- ah!” Dorian gasped, biting his tongue, as Aran snapped up sharply, jarring his jaw.

“Someone’s coming.” Aran slipped a blade from his thigh sheath as he doused the fire. It was startling how quickly he went from cuddled and content to… manic. He moved like an animal, quick and low, ready to strike. Not an animal. An asp.

Bull crouched, scanning the black horizon. “Not seeing anything, Boss.”

“Hoofbeats. Four horses. Weapons. Armor. No cart. Not merchants or farmers.” He flattened himself against the side of a tent, the flat of his blade pressed into the dirt to hide the gleam. “I’ll take care of it-”

Sera rolled her eyes, walking past him, past the tents, bow up but not drawn. “Hey, idiots!” She shouted, “Announce yourselves or you’re dead!”

“Sera!” Aran hissed.

“Shut up, you; no point killing everyone we meet just because some stupid mages made you stupid crazy. Someone has to live through this mess.”

Dorian held his breath, fingers curling around his staff.

“Crap,” Sera muttered a moment later. “Piss and bullshit.”

Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed. He couldn’t see anything but their own group’s silhouette’s in the darkness, waiting. Then Aran’s high, wild laughter. Startled. Happy? He snapped his attention back to the tent, to the white hair standing bright and starlit against the darkness. Aran was… smiling, staring at nothing.

“Ugh,” the elven girl shuddered, rubbing her arms like she was cold. “Let’s just… put the fire back on. Seriously.”

“Thank you,” Aran murmured, staring ahead. To Sera? Or who? He flexed his fingers in the air in front of him.

“Uh…” Varric glanced at Bull. “His _friends_ are weird?” he asked archly, looking puzzled.

Maker, _was_ it madness? The way he focused on nothing as though it were something, someone, important. Touching air as though it were solid.

“War triggers?” Bull squinted.

Sera dropped to a knee next to the firepit and began cracking steel against flint in irritation. She gritted her teeth, glancing back towards Aran, “Shut it up before I do.”

Aran frowned, ignoring her, “No, stay. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s fucking wrong, is what it is.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Aran said again, shook his head, rising to his feet slowly, carefully, searching the dark. “Hawke’s on her way,” he told them as he turned back, the campfire catching just in time to throw eerie shadows on his face.

The look on Varric’s face would have been priceless in any other situation. The widening eyes, shocked jaw dropping… But eyes were peeking out over Aran’s shoulder. Grey-blue, huge and haunted, shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. Long, dirty fingers curled into Aran’s sleeve.

And suddenly Dorian remembered everything. The pounding on the gates at Haven. The way the spirit moved through battles like smoke. The arguments he’d had with Vivienne about the differences between spirits and demons. And just the same he knew - _knew_ \- that he had not known any of that a moment before.

The others, it seemed, didn’t even realize they’d forgotten him.

“Nice work, Kid,” Varric was shaking himself out of his shock, smiling easily. “Should have guessed that if anyone’d find her other than me, it’d probably be you.” As if this was normal. Seeing him emerge from nothing. Remembering him when his existence had been completely absent from all memory.

“I came ahead,” that warm breeze of a voice curled around them. “So the fear wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

The Iron Bull grunted, dropping back to his stool, replacing his axe with a flask. Not remotely concerned with the spirit, but still eyeing Aran carefully. And why not? Fear, Cole had said. The last time Aran had switched like that, thrust into action by that kind of fear, Bull had found himself the target of two very sharp knives.

He seemed calm enough now, though. Steadying in Cole’s grasp. Dorian breathed in slowly, carefully. Cole. Here. All the heres, Aran had said. He was swaying slightly, Cole whispering something into his ear, bringing light back little by little. That off-center, pointed chin resting on Aran’s tense shoulder. Maker.

An Imperium mage and a spirit.

The Chantry’s golden boy was not going to remain golden much longer. Not if anyone heard about this.

“ _Vishante_ _kaffas_ ,” he whispered. Because when had Aran _ever_ been good at hiding his affections? He’d need to learn, fast, before they reached civilization again at the very least. Preferably sooner. Varric could be convinced; he adored Cole like a little brother. But Bull? Worse, Sera? She clearly already had very strong opinions on this connection Aran had formed.

Maker, he was obvious. Leaning, half-smiling, allowing Cole to coax him back into his humanity.

Shit.

Dorian settled back to his roost, silent, trying to ignore the questioning looks Varric was tossing towards him. Don’t talk about it, he begged silently. Don’t mention it. Maybe Bull hasn’t noticed. But of course he had. Bull noticed as much as Varric, possibly more. He was just less likely to openly say something about what he saw.

Shit. Again. 

The Champion of Kirkwall was a force to be reckoned with. That much was obvious from the moment she rode into view, Cole’s pony trailing on a lead; a mage - staff alight with furious power and no pretending otherwise - traveling with a fully armored Templar at her side. Behind them, a sturdy warrior rode what had to be an Orlesian warhorse, scowling beneath a thick, drooping mustache.

Dorian felt more than saw Aran’s confusion as she came into view. “Ariel?” He looked at Cole.

Cole shook his head, “Marian.”

“Oh,” Aran said, then swallowed nervously. “ _Oh_.”

“What?” Varric asked.

“I… had my… I didn’t realize she was in the same… Ah.”

Marian Hawke dismounted from her saddle as she reached the camp, chin lifted. “So. Here we are again. Cleaning up other people’s messes. I thought we’d already been through this.”

Varric waved, brows still lifted a bit from Aran’s muttering. “Good to see you, Hawke.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Varric,” she smiled at him, warmth and friendship in her eyes. “I owe you and I have a lot to catch you up on. But I have this one thing to do first.”

“Sure,” Varric nodded.

Hawke turned towards Aran. “Whisperer or Inquisitor?”

“Just Aran.” Aran breathed slowly, Cole’s fingers prodding at his shoulders. “Unless you want me to call you Champion.”

“Hawke is fine.” She crooked her finger. “Here, please.”

He cocked his head to the side, curious like a bird, and slipped from Cole’s hands to go to her. “Hm?”

She took his shoulders, about to bring him into a hug- no. Not that. Gripping him. Staring at him like he was an idiot child. Worse. A dangerous… friend? Foe? He made a sound like pain that had Dorian stumbling forward a step. “It should not be here,” she whispered - furious, lip curling with the anger that shook through her. “All the things that you know, that you’ve seen, but you don’t know this _simple_ rule?”

Aran blinked. “Never been much for rules, really,” he answered, voice tight in his throat. “Which one are you on about?”

She hissed at him. Hissed. Like a snake. Like a very pissed off cat. “You sent a spirit to find me. That is blood magic. That is _anathema_. That is-“

Cole shook his head, “He didn’t. I sent myself.”

“What he said,” Aran echoed Cole, glancing at her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t tell him what to do. I won’t. Ever. Cole- you have to believe me, I’d never-“

Cole hugged himself, nodding quickly, “I remember you remembering.” Dorian glanced between them. Why did he feel a sudden urge to comfort the boy? He liked Cole, certainly, but had never felt any need to protect him. He was a spirit- Void and damnation. Was it just knowing what he meant to Aran? Was that why? Or was something different? Changed, since he’d seen Cole last? He felt more… solid, than before, whatever that meant. Why did it matter when the Champion was trying to shake his lover into pieces?

“Back! Send it back to the Fade.” Hawke didn’t let go, “You saw what happened to Anders. Send it back. Now.”

Aran’s brows drew together, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t argue with me.”

Dorian cleared his throat, “If it’s all the same to you, the Inquisition has vetted Cole. The vast majority of us concur that he is perfectly fine as he is. Thank you for your concern.”

Hawke sneered, eyes on Aran, “Don’t get me started on the Tevinter. Haven’t you had enough of Imperium madmen after what that monster did to you and Fenris?”

Aran shook his head quickly, “Hawke, _stop_. Don’t-”

“I will not.”

“Let him go,” Dorian took another step closer, trying to remain calm, but his power was snapping around him, crackling ozone and flickers of fire zagging like fireflies around the edges of his aura. The last thing he wanted was to pin Aran in the middle of a power struggle against her. But he would, if it meant saving him. 

She turned on him, withering, “Is it yours then, Magister? You’re the one who summoned it?”

“Dorian’s an Altus,” Aran said helpfully. Still. So still. “And no one _summoned_ Cole. He belongs to himself.”

“Send it away.” Her jaw was tight, tears standing in her too bright blue eyes. “ _Please_.”

“I’m not going to do that.” He didn’t try to tug away from her. If anything, it seemed that it was she who was trapped, holding him, trying to force her will against his.

“You can find another way. I know this fight seems like everything right now. I know that. But we’ve seen enough abominations. We don’t want to add you to the list.”

“What? Him?!” Varric asked, pointing at Aran.

“You think he’s a _mage_?” Dorian lifted his brows, perplexed.

“Of course he is.” Hawke glanced between them, suddenly unsure. “He’s not? You’re not?”

“No.”

“Anders said you were being investigated by the Knight-Commander. That was why we had to move you-“

Aran wrinkled his nose. “She was ass-deep in red lyrium, Hawke, and, even before that, she didn’t really understand grayscale.”

“ _Grayscale_?” Hawke looked as if she’d just eaten an Orlesian hors d’oeuvre. Maybe one of those fruit pastries called Dismay or Derision. “Either you have magic or you don’t. Even Anders said-“

“He’s fine, by the way. In case you were wondering. He and Justice are both fine. Whole again, in tandem. I told you I would take care of them and I did. I know you’re grieving his loss, but you’ll see him again. He’s not gone forever.”

“If that’s true, _how_?” She ground her teeth, “How can you repair something like that and not be a mage? What in the Void are you?”

Aran lifted his chin, his eyes merging green and blue, humming with energy. Dorian’s breath hitched, the bones of his spine fairly vibrating. Was the humming getting louder? Was that just a feeling in his teeth? The power made his lungs quake from here, as though he’d been denying himself air for years and here was something he could thrust his face into and breathe. “I’m chock full of Fade, is all.”

“You’re chock full of something,” Sera muttered.

“If he’s not a mage, he can’t be an abomination,” Varric continued. “Right, guys? No danger there.”

“You’re sure?” she asked, sounding strained. She felt it, too, then. Had to. Touching him while he was fairly glowing with pure power. How could she stand there so still?

“Yes.” Aran rested his hands on hers where she held his shoulders. She shivered, breath unsteady. “Wait. No. What was the question? Magic, yes. Mage, no. Well…” he hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I mean, I’m pretty sure that I can’t be an abomination. Not now. There’s no room left.”

She narrowed her gaze on him. For that matter, so did Dorian’s. No room left… from what? Aran’s radical honesty was going to get him murdered by the Champion of Kirkwall. “He’s half in the Fade and trapped out of time and fighting a god, already. Isn’t that enough trouble?” Dorian interjected. “And beside the point? We’re all on the same side.”

The Templar pulled his helm free, dark hair matted to the sides of his head. The family resemblance was astoundingly clear.  “Look. It’s been a long day of listening to our inner thoughts chirped aloud. Let’s all just take a break.” He glanced back, “Stroud?”

The mustached man nodded grimly. “There are more important concerns.”

“See, Marian?” Her brother grinned with forced cheer. “The Warden and the Templar both say you should let the disturbing know-it-all go.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Hawke frowned. “I’ll be watching you.”

“I hope so,” Aran said, and sounded like he meant it. He scrubbed his hand through his hair as she let him go, “Now I’m all nervous about getting wrapped up in my own inside-out skin suit. Seriously, Hawke. Way to freak a guy out.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but it fell flat. Hard. Dorian stepped closer as Hawke stepped away, gentle hands soothing where she’d gripped Aran. Where he touched, heat poured through cloth to his fingertips, despite the misty evening. Maker, the man felt like he was boiling. His eyes were still brimming over with power. It skated over Dorian's skin like electric sweat. Hot wind.

“The spirit said you had word of the Calling,” Stroud folded his arms. “That it was false.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve seen it before.” Aran leaned into Dorian’s hands. “It’s Corypheus; Hawke can tell you about him. Let’s just say he’s a really bad egg. You don’t have to believe me. It won’t matter. We just have to get Clarel to stop what she’s doing before it’s too late.”

“ _The_ _stone_ _is_ _cracked_ , _split_ , _jagged_ ,” Cole whispered. “ _The_ _hawk_ _would_ _have_ _been_ _safe_ _if_ _it_ _had_ _stayed_ , _but_ _that_ _isn't_ _what_ _hawks_ _do_."

“That’s it,” Hawke snarled, spinning back towards them.

“Hey, Hawke, hey; the Kid’s okay.” Varric clapped a hand on Cole’s shoulder, shifting a step in front of him, “See. Not a blue glowing bomb waiting to explode out of our friend. He’s got a body and everything. Not possessing anyone. Are you, Kid?”

“No! I want to help!”

“So did Justice,” she snapped. “Now we have tears through reality, a dead Divine-”

“Coryphamus,” Sera muttered.

”The Circle’s in tatters, abominations rerunning rampant-“

”That was Anders as much as any demon-“ Varric sighed.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what he could have been without-“

“It had to be done.” Varric and Hawke turned from their bickering to stare. Aran had shut his eyes. “The Chantry was weak. Weakness cannot be tolerated when it nurtures injustice.” He sounded tired. Not tired; ancient.

Dorian flexed his hands, nerves and tension building in his shoulders and arms. The Chantry _weak_? This, from Aran, who had been almost obsessive about integrating the Chantry with the Inquisition? His home, his whole life had been there. He’d muttered parts of the Chant to himself when he was sorting through problems. Maker, hadn’t Zevran just said he knew the whole bloody thing, reciting it from beginning to end with Leliana?

“Aran…” Varric frowned, “Starting to sound a little too much like Blondie, there.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Aran scowled. “He was right. If not by his hand, so many more would have died. It had to be done. Better this way than any other. Power has to be earned, wielded for the benefit of-“

“ _This_ , see-“ Hawke sputtered, “Do you see? It’s because of _him_ \- he and Anders cooked this whole mess up together and now we’re all in chaos-”

“That’s not true. I know him, Hawke.” Varric shook his head, “I know it’s been a minute for you, Quicksilver, but you are the one who’s always going on about the good of the Chantry and-“

“You don’t understand, you didn’t see, you can’t hear them-“ Aran choked on a wet, unruly sob.

Dorian wrapped his arms around him, feeling him shake and boil against his chest. “Maker, Aran-“

“Let me help,” Cole whispered, begged, straining towards Aran like a leaf in a storm. “Listen. Aran, listen. Plums in pockets, the letters in the fire, remember? Pride alone cannot solve the cipher. _Ithema’lanasta_ , _hale_ -“

“Stop it,” Aran snapped, and Cole jerked as if struck. Aran winced. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Cole stared at him. “You’re fast enough to dodge slow arrows.”

“If I pay attention, maybe.”

“ _Rather_ _fetching_ _ones_. Remember those?” Cole asked.

The heat pooled out of him like steam, brushing past Dorian into the night. Aran sagged, melting, folding in on himself, energy dissipating too quickly for him to catch himself. Dorian held on.

Varric cleared his throat, “When you fixed Blondie… you didn’t happen to take some part of Justice into you, did you?” He squinted, “Not in a possessed way, but-“

“Justice would be kinder than I.” He turned in Dorian’s arms, pressing his face to his bared shoulder. “I can’t explain it. I can’t. Please don’t ask.” He looked up, gazing into Dorian’s eyes as though he would cheerfully drown in them. As though he needed to.

Dorian couldn’t deny him that. Or anything. He gazed back into those fading Fadeshot eyes. “It’s alright. Everything will be alright.”

He wished he were as confident as he sounded.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Hawke's confrontation, Dorian takes stock and tries to regain his equilibrium. Aran has secrets he won't - perhaps can't - reveal. Cole is there to help them not fall to pieces.

“Are you angry?” Cole asked quietly. Aran had gone to his tent. To center himself, he’d said. To pray. To think. Dorian was watching the tent flap as though it might explain any of what had happened to his small stolen moments of peace. “That I didn’t stay?”

“Not angry, no.” Dorian rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “Why are you asking? Can’t you tell?”

“Yes, but I wanted to hear you say it.” He looked so lost, more lost than usual, glancing over to where Hawke and Carver parried with Varric. “I would have been. At you. Very angry.”

“If I’d left?”

“ _No_.” Cole shuddered. Visibly shuddered. His fingers curled into Dorian’s sleeve. “No. Don’t do that.”

Strange, that familiarity. Definitely not part of his regained memories. Something new, then. Something he’d plucked out of Aran’s mind, perhaps. “What did you mean, then?”

“If you’d known and hadn’t told: not dead, but gone.”

“Ah,” Dorian nodded, slowly. “I suppose there’s not much point in being angry about that now. He’s home. That’s what matters.”

“When he left, I tried to follow,” Cole whispered. “I couldn’t find the path. In the Fade, I thought, I might, but I couldn’t get back. I don’t remember how. Not like that. It pushes me back out when I manage to slip inside. You brought him from the other When before. I watched, waited, wondered, but you didn’t bring him back again. I couldn’t help. I wanted to find a way to fix it. But he found me instead. He reached across, over and over, mindful and meaning.” He picked at a thread on his vest, shadows cloaking his expression, “He tried to find you but you had already found him. Too much, too many. _All that anger soaking into the creaking boards. Blood and poison, in the dark, listening,_ but he didn’t cut him down. For you.”

“Him, who?”

“The man with your eyes. _His face in the stands, watching as I pass the test. So proud_ _there’s_ _tears in his eyes. Anything to make him happy. Anything_.” Dorian flinched, expecting cold, but the fingers that touched his face were warm. Firmer than he would have expected. “It hurts. I want to help. He wanted to end that hurt, drive it into darkness. But he didn’t, Dorian. It wouldn’t have helped you. Only him.” Cole traced the outline of Dorian’s eye with his thumb. “He knows the feel of it. The blood and screaming. _Wrists trapped, strapped, can’t move, gods, Dorian, someone, help me- burning, boiling, bleeding- fading, Fading-_ He watched you, remembering. Your hurt is all tangled in your love, I told him. He can’t tug it loose without tearing it.”

“Remembering,” Dorian echoed. Was Cole saying that someone had practiced blood magic on Aran? To what end? And he’d had to sit there, watching as Dorian suffered that practice as he had- remembering. Because I asked him to, he thought viciously. This other me. Because the Archon needed it. For his precious fucking power. Legacy. He was no better than his father. “How do you know this?”

“He brings it all through to this side, making it real here. It’s part of him now. It’s part of us. So many pasts all walking towards the same future.”

“Is it a good one, at least?” Dorian whispered. “That future?”

“No one has reached it yet. Not even him.” Cole let go of his sleeve, slowly, as though realizing for the first time that he’d held on. “Some things are good. We can be.” He frowned, “We have to be.”

Dorian nodded, eyes narrowing with intention in the glow of the campfire. “Then we will.”

“Yes.”

He wanted to touch that hand. Bring it back to his face. Maker, why would he want that? Strange impulses. Fear and the ache of Aran’s pain. The pain that Cole seemed to be sharing, despite himself. “He’s fraying, isn’t he?” he asked, instead. Focus on the problem at hand.

“Too many pieces torn away and added in. Bad patchwork. Pulled by greedy hands.”

“I gathered as much.” Dorian looked at the rough, worn edges of the tent flap. “Is it another one?” he asked, voice so low he could barely hear himself. “Like before? Inside him?”

“Not a-” Cole blinked as Dorian hissed at him. “Not one of them,” he said instead. Shook his head, bangs in his eyes, “Not inside. _Pulling. Prying. Pushing_. Everywhen. Everywhere.” He bit his lip. It was such a human expression. So damned vulnerable.

“You let me remember forgetting you.” The spirit winced, as though the accusation was painful. “Why?”

“You needed to know that I tried.”

“Ah, Cole…” Dorian sighed. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours, either.”

Dorian frowned. “You didn’t do this to him.”

“Neither did you.” Cole moved as Dorian’s gaze flitted, in the path of his sight wherever he tried to look away. “You’re hurting. I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, it just… is hard to hear.” He returned to studying the fringe, fraying, “From you.”

“You believe me and you don’t.” Cole wrinkled his nose. “You have to pick one. You have to choose. Both of you can’t be divided into parts. It’s too many.”

“You’ve changed, haven’t you?” Dorian asked. “You seem… more here.”

“Everything changes. Life is entropy. I am alive. See?” He flexed his fingers, rolling his wrists with a slight popping sound. “I am. I have blood and other things. I checked. Can we see him now?”

Mad. They were all mad. “If you make sure they don’t see you go in.”

Cole dissipated into an outline of himself sketched in the air, then nothing. Alone, Dorian glanced back at the fire. The Bull was staring out into the night, arms crossed, thinking his deep, whirling thoughts. Sera was eating, obviously eavesdropping on Varric and the Hawkes. Stroud had gone to bed. He made eye contact with Varric, offered him a slight nod and received one in return. That was that, then. Dorian sighed, ducking inside Aran’s tent. The man was curled in a ball, forehead pressed to his sleeping mat, his back expanding and contracting with shallow breaths. He brushed his fingers in a pattern across the inside of the tent, warding for protection and sound. “Aran.”

“I can’t talk about it, Dorian.” He sounded less panicked now. Exhausted. As though he were losing some inner war.

“I’m not asking.”

Aran shuddered. “I’m sorry.” He lifted his head, eyes reddened, face flushed, cheeks white with tension. “She’s right.”

“About what?”

“I-“ he paused as arms encircled him, drawing him up. Cole pulled him to lean back against him, absently pushing at his cheekbones, jawline, the back of his skull. Aran dampened his lips, casting a nervous glance towards the flap. “I did this,” he whispered. “The rebellion. The Conclave. I could have stopped them, I think. I chose not to try.”

Dorian rested a hand over Aran’s. “Alright.”

“Don’t you want to know why?” Aran asked, raw and ragged.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“No. Yes. No. I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to. No, I want to, but it’s too-” He searched. Searched. _What are you looking for in me, Aran?_ Dorian wondered as Aran’s eyes wandered his face. _Permission? Forgiveness?_ “I would try. If you-“

“Leave it for today.” Dorian watched the play of Cole’s fingers over Aran’s head and neck, gentle, rummaging reeds, distracting and disentangling. “We have time. I just need one answer, if you can. You said you saved this… Anders… He’s an abomination? The reason for the mage rebellion in Kirkwall?”

“Is that the question?” Aran scowled. “No. Yes, but no. He’s sane, as much as he can be.”

 _Like you?_ he wondered. “Where is he now?” Dorian squeezed his hand, “No. You don’t have to say. Only… is he going to hurt anyone? Anyone innocent?”

“I don’t think so.” He sighed as Cole tilted his head to exhale against his neck. “He married my sister, Miranda. She’s with him. They’re both healers, at heart - I don’t think-”

“They’re here? In this time?”

“Yes.” Aran swallowed. “I think. Maker, I don’t _know_ , Dorian! I didn’t realize Marian was in the same timeline with you. I can’t tell what’s leading to what.”

“We’ll figure it out. You have another piece now, yes? A connection.” Gears within gears. Slow nodding. “You like puzzles, remember.”

A watery laugh. “I didn’t know puzzles like this existed.”

“Be careful what you wish for, isn’t that what they say?” Dorian settled down, kneeling at his side. “You cannot let her know.”

“I know.”

“About Cole; Aran, you cannot let anyone know.”

Aran blinked. “Oh.”

“They will kill him. They might well kill you.” Maker damn him if both ideas didn’t stab him with sharp, cold fear. He felt a sudden, fierce need to protect them. Protect them both. If only for the warm sense of calm Cole was able to build in Aran like a hearth. “You know that. It’s dangerous. An entirely different kind of dangerous. Tongues were wagging because of me. Can you imagine-“ Dorian cupped Aran’s cheek, his fingers brushing Cole’s beneath a lightning-scarred ear. Heat and cold snapped in his chest, his stomach, twisting. Tight. Warring. Wanting.

They were watching him, two sets of alien eyes perched side-by-side. White and yellow hair mingling where their heads touched, like strands of sunlight. Otherworldly, lost, and haunted. Pale and stuttering in and out of existence.

What had he been saying? Dorian swallowed. His skin felt stretched tight. His body reacting - rebelling. Revolting. Void and damnation, he was a revolting cur. What was it inside of him that leaned into the worst possible permutation of every moment? Aran was still raw and tear-stained. Cole was anchoring him. Saving him from himself. And whatever else they had together… that was theirs. He wasn’t going to insert himself into that safe haven. _Penetrate_. He gritted his teeth. Maker, they’d all seen too much for their lifetimes, worn too much blood for their good intentions. Stop. He had to stop. Stop this before it escaped his body’s desire and bled into his heart, his mind. _Too late,_ he thought, feeling himself shift against his thigh. Fuck. It was some kind of magic, manipulation… He was lying to himself. He knew better. He didn’t need help; he was corrupt and corruptible, feeding on all their commingled heartbreak and bloody lost-ness like a villain.

Protect them? He wanted to eat them whole, drink in their despair, and make it scream with a different energy.

“Stop,” he didn’t realize he’d spoken until they both stilled, frozen in time. He’d been afraid. Maybe that’s what it was. Afraid for Aran in his panic, his confusion. Afraid for what Aran’s feelings for Cole might cause the elder Hawke to do to him and to the spirit. Afraid for what that clear connection between them meant to him, for him… Fear could do strange things. It created cowards and monsters. “Before it’s too late. You have to stop.” Was that his voice? That awful, torn, hot-sand tearing thing? Was he talking to them? Or to himself?

His heart was hammering in his chest. His cock stiffening, lengthening against his thigh. He had to get out of there. Distance. He needed distance. Air. He eyed the tent flap. _Go. Get out. Run. Run for your life. For theirs._

Andraste forgive him, he unfolded his fist, holding his palm open at his side and felt Cole’s slender, gritty, wind warm fingers wind with his. _Wrong_ , Sera had called it. Maker, it was. Wrong, treacherous, terrible, and dangerous. Deadly.

He was so hard he could barely breathe. “We’re all of us completely screwed. You realize that.”

“Yes,” Cole sighed. “Yes.” Words like shallow breath, had he actually spoken? Answered? Dorian felt his soft touch against his palm, tracing the lines.

 _I am a no-good, degenerate; I am a very, very bad man_ , Dorian thought. _Debauched. Depraved._

Cole blinked at him, trusting like a kitten.

A touch at his thigh, the press of a cold palm sliding up and over the ridge of his betrayal. Dorian caught a groan in the back of his throat, strangled. Aran’s head was bent, hair hiding his face as he repeated the stroke. Less tentative now. “Aran- no. No.” _Yes_ , he wanted to scream.

Aran drew his hand back, still hidden behind the fall of messy moonlight white hair. “Dorian?” he whispered.

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?” Aran peered up through the fall of moonlight, dark lashes framing reddened eyes. Unreadable.

“I… don’t know. But it’s not that.”

Aran brushed his hair back out of his face, “What is it, then? A spare staff?”

Dorian felt his cheeks bloom with heat. Fool. He was a fool. Kneeling there, stiff in his robes like an oversexed teenager; his hand hanging there limp while Cole played havoc with him just by touching his fingers, palm, the inside of his wrist. He cleared his throat, carefully extricating his digits from the onslaught. “This isn’t about me. I’m worried about you. About you both. Your ‘old friend’ was not playing out there.”

“I know.” He frowned a little. “We weren’t friends, really. We knew each other through Merrill and Anders.”

“That’s even worse. If she says something to Cassandra about the Kirkwall Chantry- Or Leliana-”

Aran closed his eyes. “I would rather talk about your spare staff.”

“I know you would;” Dorian shook himself when he heard his own roughened voice. “You can’t go making puppy eyes at him like that in front of them.”

“Puppy eyes?” Cole inquired.

“All longing and intoxicated and peaceful,” Dorian explained.

Cole smiled, and it was like summer breaking mid-winter, a bloom of warmth and easiness and comfortable sun-soaked days. Dorian swallowed. Maker, did he know he did that or was it simply part of his general, ephemeral spirit-ness? _I can’t even think straight_ , he muttered internally. _‘Spirit-ness?’ I’m becoming a bumbling imbecile._ It grew, parting those wide, full lips; open-sky eyes bright and shining.

 _He can hear me._ That bright smile slipped sideways into such a similar crookedness to Aran’s knowing smirks that it made Dorian’s chest tight. _Fuck_. “Cole- tell me you understand.”

Cole nodded, although that too-knowing, lingering, summer smile didn’t fade or change.

“That you understand that you are both in danger,” Dorian ground out. “That this is a life or death situation.”

“Everything is.”

Dorian huffed as Aran interrupted with, “He’s right. Everything is either alive or dead.”

“You will be the latter. Unless you get this under control.”

“Dorian-” Aran blew his hair out of his eyes, “You… really?”

“I can’t lose you.” He did not like them both focusing on him this way [he did]. He needed them to stop [touch], turn away [come closer], focus on what he was saying [ignore every sensible word]. His body felt foreign, straining, yearning to throw one or both of them down and rut until his mind lost the ability to natter on.

“So when you say ‘stop’, what you mean to be saying is: ‘don’t get caught’.”

“If you’re capable of one without the other,” Dorian muttered. “Your subtlety is determinedly lacking.”

“It is.” Aran nodded. “That’s true.” He placed his hand on the swollen flesh resting against Dorian’s thigh, pressing his palm against the tiny spot of wet that had begun to seep through the cloth. Dorian’s jaw tightened as he squeezed. “So is yours.”

Dorian swallowed again, hard, his cock traitorously twitching against Aran’s palm. “We’re not talking about me,” he reiterated, tightening his jaw against a moan as Aran began slowly, torturously stroking him.

“Maybe we should.”

“I’m trying to have a conversation.”

“It’s amazing,” Aran murmured, his gaze resting on Dorian’s lips. “You’ve never wanted him before.”

“Yes, yes, I’m a scandalous monster,” Dorian scowled, ruining the expression by subconsciously wetting his lower lip. “People expect these sorts of displays from me. I don’t want to be disappointing. And it is fascinating, a spirit wandering about as a human, incorporating human flaws and expressions. But that is neither here nor there.”

“It seems very much here.”

“Aran. You cannot distract me. We have a great many things to address, not the least of which is the imperative that you must resolve this issue about Cole before you see Hawke next…” He trailed off as Aran unlaced the neck of his tunic. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sorry- I thought that was a challenge.” Aran peeled the tunic up and off, reaching for Dorian again. “Make it twenty royals?” Dorian smacked his hand away.

“Cut it out.”

“You’re the one who said I couldn’t distract you.” He smoothed his hands over his chest, tracing the scars that wound up his side. “Cole? Do you want to help?”

“Stop that.” Dorian exhaled sharply as Cole’s summer-soft expression went all to wildflowers. Nothing like his fumbling stumble into madness when he’d been a teen. That creature had been all hard angles, planes of muscles, dripping and slippery and throbbing. Cole folded through the air like cloth blown by the wind, catching against Aran.

Wrong! Sera’s voice rang in his head again as he watched those narrow fingertips follow Aran’s. Not just brushing. Dancing. Trilling across the man’s planes of muscle as though touch could be song. Aran’s skin softened under his attention, a warm flush stealing across the pale expanse of his flesh, the remnants of bruises melting like snow under the sun. Even his scars seemed to smooth a bit when Cole touched them, all tender buffeting breeze. Beautiful. Wrong, he reminded himself. Beautifully wrong, his mind supplied. Wrongly beautiful?

Aran touched Cole’s cheek, gazing at him with such heartfelt, free affection it made Dorian ache. “Was this the look?” he asked. So grounded. Steady. Studying the spirit’s gentle expression, mirroring the trail of Cole’s fingers with his own over the blonde’s tunic. “The one I’m supposed to stop?”

Dorian tried to answer, heart in his throat, and only succeeded in squeezing out a low, thready, “-yes.”

Cole bent towards Aran like a flower seeking sunlight; his lips hovered, barely touching, breathing. Slow. Steady. His breath fluttered the stubble of Aran’s chin.

And Aran was so careful. Maker, he touched Cole as though the blonde might catch the next breeze away as easily as he’d arrived. Soft, gentle, fingertips tracing Cole’s shoulders up to his neck, meeting his eyes as he slipped his fingers into that rough-hewn blond hair. “May I?” he murmured. Cole’s sigh was the sound of a child being released from lessons for the day, free to run and play in the spring hills. Aran slipped his hat off, placing it to the side with both hands. Cole followed his movement with his body, fingers moving over the muscles that flexed in his back and arms. He rested his cheek against Aran’s spine.

Out of the shadow of that wide, unsuitable brim, the darkness that usually framed Cole’s face and eyes disappeared- and he was… exquisite. High, high cheekbones. A long, equine nose. Lips that were full and flushed and tenderly welcoming. Eyes like summer skies and playful puddles that warmed Dorian straight to his fingertips.

Maker preserve him. So much worse and better than a desire demon. No demand at all in him. Only acceptance - of Aran, of the three of them in this tent, of the danger inherent in every touch and kiss he exchanged with Aran and Aran’s right to choose that danger for himself. Of Dorian, in his entirety, including every horrifying, lewd, frankly astonishing thought swirling through his mind as he watched them- gaped, more like it. Because they were so steady and in tune and gentle, when all he could think was: how- how _is this happening? How is this happening in front of me?_ And: _want that hard cock pounding me into next week, cum filling my ass, licking it out, waking me up to fuck me again._ And: _he loves me, but this is love- this is what it looks like- I can never unsee this-_

“Unlearning not to hope for more.” Cole’s voice coaxed him back. “It changed me, too.”

“This-” Dorian waved inarticulately, “is not how these things work.” _Stop looking. Stop looking at them. Get out._

“It’s how it can work for us.” Aran met his eyes. “If you want it to.”

“I realize this is a foreign concept to you given what you say you’ve been up to in your recent forays into the multiverse, but in a civilized society - this one in particular - people do not couple in groups. That’s why it’s called ‘coupling’. The concept is inherent in the term.”

“You’re forgetting that I’ve been to Tevinter house parties.”

“Those are special occasions, and generally one hates everyone else there.” Dorian paused, “I don’t believe I would have brought you to one of those - they would have eaten you alive. The Archon had this bright idea, I assume?”

“He painted me gold.” Aran smiled. “I had a throne and a jeweled scepter; his friends took turns feeding me grapes. Peeled, of course.”

“Did they _really_?” Dorian blinked once. “Regardless, you must see it’s positively unseemly. I mean- those are Events. And this- ah - this… I know you enjoy your guest appearances, but this…” _Stop_ , the worst part of himself demanded. Stop talking. Take this. Lap it up. Fuck them. Tear into them like the starving dog that you are. You can masturbate to the memory of it later. You can drink and remember and dream to your heart’s content. Aran can do it, and he’s a collection of fragments, fragile and invincible at the same time. If he can do it, you can, too. Don’t admit it. Don’t admit it’s beyond you. Dorian shut his eyes, hard. “This will complicate things for me,” he spilled in a rush. “You may go flitting off, but we will still be here having to deal with each other. And I’m already going to be seeing this in my mind when you’re both out of sight. I believe you’re serious, alright? I’m not jealous and I’m not saying give up. I’m saying: don’t let them kill you over this. And don’t make me watch. Please.”

“And _I’m_ saying we can keep each other safe. _All_ of us.”

“All-” Dorian shook his head, confused, “You’re not suggesting some sort of… ongoing liaison-”

“You’re my home. You can’t be a guest and a home at the same time.” Aran’s brows drew together, “I know I might be an ass, but you have to at least know that I wouldn’t toy with you like that. I’m not- I wouldn’t hurt you. I just want to make you- Cole would stop me if I was going to- wouldn’t you?” He glanced at Cole, “I don’t think he’d let me get away with it.”

“I’m here to help,” Cole lifted one eloquent shoulder, still pillowed against Aran’s skin. “In the rain by the river, you thought it might be real, but he took the bag of gold when it was offered and sent you back to your father’s house.” He unfolded his arm, palm open, long fingers outstretched towards Dorian, “We will not turn against you.” He flexed his fingers, as though trying to stretch across and close the distance between them. Blinked, brows winging. “What is a ‘split roast’? Are you hungry?”

Aran’s smile, slow and spreading, was indecent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series continues with 'my window through which nothing hides'. Thank you!


End file.
